


Words Left Unsaid

by lemonlovely



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Billy is an ass, Catholic, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Derogatory Language, Dungeons and Dragons, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, Hate to Love, Homophobic Language, I wasn't kidding about slow burn, I'll update tags for content as I go, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Neil Hargrove Being an Asshole, PTSD, Period-Typical Homophobia, Redemption, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Slow AF Burn, Slurs, The Upside Down, Underage Drinking, Violence, neil is the human villain, some past non-con stuff mentioned, steve is a soccer mom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-04-20 02:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 145,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14251422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonlovely/pseuds/lemonlovely
Summary: When he gets drugged at a party with Steve, his absence at home lands Billy in trouble with his old man. The next night, a call from Max drags Steve back into the circus at the Hargrove Household, trying to help. After that, a tentative truce of sorts forms between the two Kings of Hawkins, along with a shaky friendship built around ferrying kids around town. But they're soon reminded that the world is full of monsters, both human and...not. The Upside Down isn't done trying to break into our world.





	1. Do you want me to leave?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> March 30th, 1985 (Early AM)

There was another party at Nicky’s house. Not Nicholas, not Nick, only ‘Nicky.’ Steve didn’t really know Nicky, and he didn’t really care to _get_ to know him. He supposed he’d been out of the social loop of high school for long enough that the whole pyramid scheme seemed pointless by now. When you were toward the top of the pyramid it seemed a lot more important. At the lower rungs, who the fuck cared? He didn’t even especially care how he got down to the bottom. But here he was, for the first time, at Nicky’s house in well over a year.

Why? Because what he did care about was getting some large quantities of cheap alcohol down his throat – not the three hundred plus dollar shit that his dad kept in his alcohol cabinet. Tonight he wanted the bitter tang of cheap booze on his tongue because he couldn’t take the rich emptiness in his house reflected in his choice of drink.

Drinking alone just so he could sleep. Again. He just wanted to be normal tonight, maybe. And maybe cheap booze could do that. If he could still get blackout drunk, same results - he could sleep dreamless, even if it was in the back of his flashy red BMW.  
Cheap booze and even less rich company – the dregs of his high school that he used to fit in with, used to rule, used to look down on and make high and mighty choices of who was worthy of ‘King Fuckin’ Steve.’ _Right._

Now, Steve was invisible. And he found that he preferred that, liked it that way. It’d been that way among his own age group for a while. He hung out with kids for Christ’s sake. And outside of a Halloween Party, he wasn’t that worried about catching Nancy Wheeler here – Jonathan was a far cry from a partier, and Nance would stick around with him at home doing…whatever they did. Steve scowled into his red plastic cup at that thought, sitting at the end of a brown paisley couch.

The television was blaring a late night rerun of the game, but nothing could be caught over the thump of the music. The base of the speakers rattled low in Steve's belly, making it ache. It was already over saturated with some kind of tan colored vodka mixture that tasted like rubbing alcohol and shit.  
Not that he was complaining. He took another drink, enjoyed the god awful burn sliding down his throat, resting his head back against the scratchy brown fabric. Listlessly eyeing the basketball game, knee jiggling as he tapped his black Nike heel repeatedly. Bored and impatient.

He felt like a fish out of water. Even a handful of months ago he would have belonged. He’d gotten a few funny looks for being here, but that was about it. Steve just knew that he hadn’t wanted to be alone in his cavernous house with its professionally decorated, posh décor. All plush carpets, dark corners, and empty spaces.  
He was just tired. It made him more tired, fighting to stay awake, to avoid his dreams – his nightmares. The only way he could really get to sleep was to get black out drunk. That was his goal. He sipped more copper hued rubbing alcohol, pulling a bit of a face at the sting.

A girl caught his eye from across the room – he knew all of the girls in Hawkins, at least by face, but he couldn’t remember all the names. He knew he didn’t want to be with any of them. Britney or Babs or something like that. Not Barb. Never Barb. Steve flicked his Ray-Bans down from the crown of his head over his eyes, obviously caring very little that it was two in the morning and the house was poorly lit. Hiding his face. He berated himself for it. He came here to not be alone, then promptly isolated himself anyways.  
He was just…exhausted. With purple smudges under his eyes, now covered by the sunglasses. Damn, he was tired. He didn’t want Britney-Babs-whatever-the-fuck coming over. Then she did anyways – didn’t get the hint.

Steve shifted his weight on the sofa as she plopped down next to him, her Obsession perfume too strong, her blonde teased hair too big – stuffed into a huge side ponytail in a pink scrunchie that could smother a small child. Her tits were half hanging out of her pleather halter.  
She smacked her pink Bubble Yum gum at him, twining a strand of her fried blonde hair around her finger, crossing her legs as she leaned toward him.

“Haven’t seen you at a party in a while, Steve.” She purred at him. More like slurred at him. She’d obviously had more to drink than he had. 

Steve tried to smile at her, to smile easily at her like he might have once, leaning back with feigned languid limbs and a cocky flash of his teeth.  
“Yeah. Yeah, guess I’m just getting back into it.”

“We missed you.” She chirped back. Lying through her teeth. She probably just wanted him – she was staring at the crotch of his jeans when she said that, not at his face.  
“Sure,” Steve snorted, glancing away uneasily. He might have actually messed around with her before, when he had been shitfaced – a while back, before Nance. He’d screwed around with a lot of girls back then. Hell, Nancy had named some of them off to him like notches in his belt shortly after they’d started dating.  
Oh. Becky. That’s right – Nancy had said her name then. Steve squinted into his drink. Damn. That was this girl, huh?  
He’d been really wasted when they’d found themselves in a bedroom. Or was it a bathroom?

“Well - well what I meant is _I_ missed you.” She said in a lower voice, sidling closer to him on the couch cushion. Running a long, hot pink fingernail up his thigh from the knee like a claw, almost to his crotch. Steve had to struggle not to jump away from the touch.

He wasn’t here for some easy fuck. Not anymore. The idea…damn, it just didn’t appeal to him anymore. He wanted some form of meaning when he was with someone - that had all changed with Nance. That had been new, and he couldn’t seem to go back.  
He’d had that with Nancy. Steve’s stomach, sour with rubbing-alcohol-whatever, twisted a little in his gut at the thought. Well, he’d thought he’d had that with her. But he hadn’t, had he?

Why shouldn’t he go fuck Becky like it was nothing? Like she was nothing? Like he was nothing? His throat clenched. Because it wasn’t true. They were both worth more than that. He wanted that electricity washing over his skin for someone. He wanted that feeling before a storm, the one he’d told Dustin about some months ago, last fall. Wanted meaning. Becky deserved that with someone, too, and it wasn’t with him. He didn’t want to revert to what he’d being doing before. Using people.

She made his skin crawl now, even if he’d done something with her before – what, he didn’t know, because he didn’t remember. That was honestly half of the problem. That had been kind of common a few years ago. He was pretty sure he’d done it with half of his female graduating class, or at least gone down on them, or vice versa.  
Back then he’d just been so…angry, almost all the time. Looking for something, but he didn’t know what. He still felt that anger stir restlessly behind his breastbone sometimes…but he didn’t give into it anymore. There were more important things in the world, he knew now, things to actually justify anger. And his issues with being alone in a too-big house, without enough attention from his parents or whatever? That wasn’t one of the reasons. Not with monsters in the world, both the paranormal and human kind.

Now he just felt tired and somehow - defeated by life, and what they’d all seen. It was exhausting to feel this way. Like he was constantly keeping up a façade and a mask. One that he was happy, one that he was normal, one that he had friends his own age, and parents that loved him, and he hadn’t seen into the petal shaped jaws of death and somehow survived. Ones he saw when he closed his eyes.  
He’d felt this bone deep exhaustion since the tunnels, since the nightmares became every night. Hell, even way before that. And then Nancy’d cheated on him with Jonathan – Jonathan of all people. That hadn’t helped the nightmares. But really, he supposed he should have seen the way she only had eyes for him, all along.  
That wasn’t something that had changed suddenly. It had always been there.

Steve probably should have known since the beginning of their relationship – when he’d first told Nancy he loved her, she’d said, ‘You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington.’ That wasn’t something you said to someone when they told you they loved you. But Nancy Wheeler sure as shit had. And he hadn’t pushed her on it, hadn’t rushed her, had waited for her to say it because maybe – maybe he’d just said it too soon.  
And she said the word ‘idiot’ like an endearment, he’d thought. It hadn’t felt so much like an endearment when she’d given him those looks over his essays she was helping him with. It had felt too real, too close, and too sharp. Idiot.

He was just in a dark head space right now, he thought. He could work through it, he would.

“Uh, hello? Steve?” Becky popped her gum in his face. Steve blinked, looking up.

“Huh?” He asked. She raised an over plucked brow at him, narrowing her cloud gray eyes.

“I said, do you wanna go to one of the rooms? I heard the bathroom is occupado.” She tilted her head towards the stairs, smiling at him with bright lips, shiny like pink highlighter, he thought.

“Hm? The what?”

“The bathroom? Duh. Are you listening to me?” She repeated like he was stupid.

Steve blinked again. She wanted him to do her in the bathroom? Somehow, that figured. Maybe they’d done it there last time, who knew.

“Yeah, Billy – Keg _Kingggg_! – poor baby kegged too much I guess and now he’s yacking up his guts.” She giggled like it was a huge joke, squealing the word ‘king.’ 

Steve didn’t think kegged was a word. Was it?  
But when she glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the upstairs bathroom, it was a little wistful – Steve was pretty sure that expression translated to ‘I’d be going after him if he wasn’t throwing up his guts.’ Billy was more than popular with the ladies.

“He doesn’t really like you though, huh?” Becky mused, finally looking back to Steve from those blonde lashes.

She adjusted her huge ponytail a little bit, like she was observing her reflection in his shades. Steve snorted into his drink, taking too long of a swallow. She totally was checking out her reflection. He wondered what kind of hairspray she used, her hair was impressively teased up and rock solid.

“I’d say that’s safe to say.” Steve agreed.

His dark brown gaze wandered over to the stairs thoughtfully, a small frown line forming between his brows above the glasses. He scratched at his neck with the hand not holding his alcohol. He’d thought he remembered Dustin mentioning something to him about Max having a sleepover with El, and that Billy was supposed to pick her up at about the ass crack of dawn because Hop had to go to work real early, and Billy’s dad had insisted or something. Apparently Billy had thrown a huge fit about it, but begrudgingly agreed.

So why was Billy here at 2 in the morning getting shit faced enough to be best friends with the porcelain throne, when he had to pick up Max in – what – four hours? Steve maybe remembered Dustin saying 6 am. It seemed too early for a pick up, but the girls had been so excited and it was the only night Hop could work out.  
He scowled. At this rate, Billy’d probably still be drunk when he went to go get her, or somehow Steve would get wrangled into having to go pick her up. The cabin was too far removed for her to get home on her skateboard, and this time of year it was still kind of dark in the mornings.

“Shit…” Steve muttered under his breath. He shouldn’t get involved.

“What?” Becky asked.

“Uh nothin’, I’ve just gotta check on something.” Steve waved her off and stood to go walk towards the stairs, artfully dodging bodies and balancing his drink in the air so it wouldn’t spill onto his white t-shirt and over-tight blue jeans.

He thought he heard Becky mutter something like ‘ _F– rrrEAk_ ’ behind him, but it was hard to catch over the music. He rolled his eyes behind his shades before he reached the bathroom. He heard the sound of someone being sick behind it.

Steve hammered on the door with his fist. “Hargrove?” He yelled through the door. 

He didn’t hear any reply, but there was a pause in the repetitive vomiting sounds. Steve's frown deepened as he knocked again with the side of his fist. No answer. Feeling ballsy, Steve opened the door – easing it open, slow at first so he could just pop his head in, sliding his glasses back up onto his huge cloud of brown hair.

He supposed it didn’t come as much of a surprise to see Billy Hargrove crouched in front of the toilet, embracing the pale pink porcelain like an old friend. Steve winced. The color pink had thrown up too, actually. All over the bathroom. Everything in here was pink – the sink, the tub, the toilet, the teddy-bear wallpaper.  
Yikes.  
He was having some sort of flashback of doing something to a girl sitting on the horrendous pink tile counter-top. Yep. He’d been in here before.

Steve slid into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him to keep some semblance of privacy for Billy.  
“Uh, hey.” He said softly, awkwardly, cocking his hands on his hips, elbows out, like he either wasn’t sure where to put them, or was about to scold Billy like one of his kids.  
“You’re completely wasted.” Steve raised both eyebrows like question marks.

“Yeah,” Billy coughed, spitting into the toilet bowl before raising a fierce blue glare to Steve. His eyes were rimmed in pink. “No shit, Sherlock.” He snapped. “You’re so fuckin’ observant, Harrington.”

Then he was upchucking more of his guts into the toilet. Steve winced. Billy always seemed to hold his alcohol real well – way, way better than Steve, so he must have drank a lot. He could drink anyone under the table. Steve shifted awkwardly on his feet. He didn’t know why he was here. He supposed he’d come up here to see if it was true, because he’d be damned if Billy was picking up Max in four hours, four sheets to the wind.  
Steve chewed on his lower lip before taking a few hesitant steps across the shiny linoleum.

“What…d’you want…” Billy snarled, but the ferocity was mostly toned down by him puking at the end of the sentence.

Steve sighed in response, setting his drink on the counter, and against his better judgement, took a few steps forward to sort of pat Billy artlessly on the shoulder of his leather jacket. Just some form of comfort – he knew what it felt like to be expelling all of his insides in burning masses, violently, and it felt better when someone was there. When someone rubbed little circles in your back, or even helped keep your hair out of the way.  
But they weren’t friends. Billy hated Steve. He’d always hated Steve. He’d made that pretty damn clear. Not five months ago he’d broken Steve’s face and shattered a plate over his head. He could still feel the scarring when he touched his scalp above the hairline. After that, Steve hadn’t been so fond of him, either. He’d avoided him like the black plague, 'cause Billy was also dangerous to Steve’s health.  
What was he doing here?

“Just…you alright?”

Steve probably wouldn’t have been daring enough to come in here and give Billy shit if he himself hadn’t already been drinking a lot. Now, he didn’t really want to get on his case anymore – he just felt…bad for him.  
Billy flinched briefly beneath the touch of Steve’s hand as if he were about to jerk away.

“Don’t you fuckin’ touch me. ‘m fine.” Billy choked out. 

But Steve didn’t move his hand – maybe he didn’t move it specifically because Billy _wanted him_ to move it. On purpose. You’re poking a goddamn bear, Harrington, he told himself.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. Somebody said you were in here.” Steve replied. “I’ve never seen someone that holds their alcohol like you – what the hell happened?”

“I don’t…know.” Billy grit out - he sounded furious - shuddering under Steve’s palm, but he didn’t seem to be fighting the touch. He almost…seemed to lean into Steve’s hand a little, cheek resting against the cool carnation pink seat, eyes flickering closed – Steve was reminded how long those dark, dark lashes were, soft on Billy’s cheeks, and he quickly turned his gaze back up to the wallpaper. Breathing through his nose.

“I think…some piece’a shit slipped something in my drink. Who th’-FUCK does that, Harrington?” Billy was growling, cheek still smooshed against the seat, and it made his words come out funny. Squashed.

Steve looked back down at him sharply at that. “Who would be dumb enough to try and drug _you_ …” Steve muttered, shaking his head. “Where would they even _GET_ something like that?”

“That's what 'm sayin'. Dunno…drank…a few girls…drinks for them. Maybe in there. Made myself throw up when I started feelin’ it.” Billy huffed, sighed. Started vomiting more. “’n can’t stop.”

“It’s still fucked up, drugging anyone’s drink. Christ, it’s a high school party.” Steve muttered.

“Don’t matter.” Billy shrugged, like he didn’t blame whoever did it. Like it was somehow to be expected. Maybe it was common at parties in Cali. It was harder to get those kinds of drugs out here in the middle of nowhere Indiana.

“This is Hawkins.” Steve pointed out, but it was a moot point. Even bad shit could happen here. Hell, maybe more here than other places.

Steve couldn’t help but feel bad - protective, almost – even if they fought, even if they hated each other – Steve couldn’t help himself. The guy was miserable. He lowered himself down onto his knees at Billy’s side, and grabbed a tissue from the edge of the sink. He started gathering Billy’s long golden curls out of the corners of his face, drawing them back into a rough ponytail, smoothing the tissue through it – picking out little chunks and bits of nastiness that didn’t belong in that perfect hair. Wiped a little off of the shoulder of Billy’s black leather jacket. 

He tossed the crumpled, used tissue in the waste bin.  
Billy didn’t even seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t care as he slumped there over the toilet, clutching the rim desperately. His cheeks were damp with cold sweat. He was breathing so hard, shoulders rising and falling stiff and fast beneath Steve’s hands. It pushed Steve to impulsively rub his back a little, just below his shoulder - which prompted Billy to glance back at Steve sharply, zeroing in on him like a hawk on a mouse, those pupils large enough to almost eat the blue out of them.  
Steve frowned back at him, concerned. His hand went still.

“Why you here?” Billy said, reiterating his question from earlier. “Why you really here. Why you holding my hair like I’m some - some goddamn girl?” He asked, but the poison that was meant to be in the words felt weak.  
His voice was strained and rough from vomiting, and his eyes were pink with forced tears. He looked wiped out, and pissed. And honest to God curious, but like he was trying to hide it.

“I…I guess, originally, I came in here because I wanted to see if it was true you actually got drunk – you never do.” Steve glanced away from that burning, electric blue gaze before finding his own whiskey brown one drawn back – like it was magnetized.  
“And I knew you had to pick up Max in a few hours. I was just…- ” Steve softened on the word, “- worried.”

Billy let out one of his crazy, half hysteric laughs into the toilet bowl as he turned back to it, spitting up a mouthful of bile and mucus. It gave Steve a bad feeling, his muscles coiling up with tension.

“ _Worried_.” Billy repeated after him, dangerously biting the word out of his mouth, wiping at his lips with the back of his hand.  
The worst seemed to be winding down, the heaving no longer consistent.  
“Well don’t you worry about me, Harrington. I don’t need it from you. I’m fine, hear me? Figures it’s just about one of your stupid little shitbird kids, babysitter boy.” Billy glared into the toilet, not looking at Steve now. He jerked his hair from Steve’s grasp with a snap of his neck.  
“ _Maxine._ ” Billy sneered, hissing the name under his breath. Steve almost missed it. Then, louder - almost yelling - he growled “I said not to fuckin’ _touch_ me, **asshole**!”

When Billy pulled away, Steve’s hand flinched back from where it had been holding those gilded curls – soft like silk, stiff with hairspray. He’d been close enough to smell the cheap Dial shampoo, the chemical hairspray, the spice of his cologne over the bitter tang of sick. The other hand fell from his shoulder.

“Er - sorry.” He’d flushed a little at the ‘babysitter’ jab - it’s what he’d sort of become, and damn, he was good at it, but still - it wasn’t just about the kids, about Max. At least not now, with Billy in front of him, sick and trembling faintly on the obnoxious pink linoleum. Ridding his body of poison and drugs. Max had just been the catalyst that got him up to the bathroom after avoiding Billy for months. The buzz from the alcohol had helped him along.  
Now he shied away a little, picking up the warning signs from Billy. He’d never ignore them again.

Steve paused, just breathing for a minute. Trying to still his heart. “…Do you want me to leave?” 

Billy was quiet for a long time, ruminating in his thoughts and glaring into the mess of vomit in the bottom of the bowl, still clutching the porcelain sides. His denim knees sprawled out around the edges of the base, boots scuffling against the linoleum near Steve’s sneakers. There was no response. Steve’s throat tightened, he had to breathe through his nose, didn’t know what to do with his hands anymore without touching Billy.

“Are you gonna be okay to pick up Max?” Steve finally asked. “I could help, if you need, I – I could give you a ride - “

“Get out.” Billy snarled. “ _Get the fuck out._ ”


	2. I swear it won’t happen again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> March 30th, 1985

Steve was at the bathroom door. If he wasn’t wanted, there wasn’t much he could do, was there? He had a hand wrapped around the door knob, ready to leave. But he hesitated. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Billy still crumpled there, looking a bit like a half drowned, bedraggled, albeit furious kitten.  
Even his curls seemed deflated. Billy didn’t look at him again, seemed to be trying to get his boots beneath him, ignoring Steve’s existence.

However, even grabbing onto the toilet tank he couldn’t seem to manage it – weak kneed like a new born foal, the world obviously tilting too much for him. Steve turned back towards the door with a huff through his nose, eyes closed.  
He thunked his forehead once against the door with a wooden ‘thump.’ Repeated it. Released the knob and turned back around. Who cared if he wasn’t wanted? That wasn’t new.  
He couldn’t leave Billy like this either way.

This felt a bit like déjà vu and he remembered the last time he’d left someone drunk and falling apart on their own in a bathroom – someone else had taken her home. It hadn’t ended well.  
Who had drugged Billy in the first place?  
Was it on purpose? A mistaken drink? Meant for someone else? 

Either way, Steve wasn’t leaving him here. Anyone could take Billy like this; take him in a fight, or take him away. He sighed and strode back across the squeaky linoleum, far more sure footed than Billy was at this point. Billy threw Steve a poisonous look as he approached, unsteadily leaning against the toilet, before staggering towards the counter top. He gripped the edge of it with a strong, white knuckled grip – his big, silver ring flashing in the fluorescent bathroom light.

“Thought I told you to beat it? Did I fuckin’ stutter?” Billy asked, flashing his canines at Steve with a dark grin. Like it was a dare, a challenge – like a snake shaking it’s rattle before someone got close enough for it to lash out, to bite.

“Yeah, yeah, you told me, I got it. But I’m not leaving you here like this. Not happening.” Steve grit out through his teeth, shaking his head, chin tilted up – standing as tall as he could so he could look down his nose at Billy. He waved a hand in an abortive gesture. “So c’mon. Lemme take you home. Whatever they put in your drink, you’re all kinds of fucked up.”

“I don’t need anything from you, _Harrington_. Don’t need your pity, or your weak ass help.” Billy slurred, all venom, leaning heavy against the counter as he bent woozily over the sink. He twisted the cold water on, cupping some in his palm. Rinsed out his mouth. Spat.

“Well I’m not leaving, you’re stuck with me. You see any other options around?”

“No, but I’d sure as hell take them over you.”

“What the fuck ever.” Steve sighed and walked behind Billy to close the toilet lid, flush it, because Billy probably hadn’t planned on it – maybe he’d forgotten, but it was more likely he didn’t give a damn. 

When Steve came up behind Billy, the boy glanced up at him sharply in the mirror, flinching - posture shifting to a defensive one. Like he expected Steve to do something - what? - get him in a headlock from behind?  
Those pupil blown blue eyes narrowed on Steve’s face in the reflection. Steve’s reflection blinked, holding up his hands in surrender. What’d he done? Billy watched him warily until Steve sidled over to his side – once he wasn’t at Billy’s back, the other teen seemed to ease up slightly. Just barely.

Steve scratched at the nape of his neck, itchy with something like nerves, shoving his other hand into his pocket as he studied the sharp line of Billy’s profile as the guy slapped water over his face – seeming to keep track of the brunette in his peripheral.

“What you lookin’ at? Plan on taking a Polaroid, Harrington? Want it to last? Noo, wait. That’s righttt.” Billy shook his head, tongue flicking out at Steve, tapping his temple as if he were experiencing some golden memory with a cocky smile.

He slicked that water bright finger over a coiled curl on his forehead. Fruitlessly trying to get it in the right position after he’d been throwing up his guts for half an hour. It seemed a little hopeless at this point, he thought, but Billy still tried. Steve’d be doing the same thing in his place.

“That’d be more of that bitch’s new boy’s thing, wouldn’t it? Creep with the camera. Byers.” Billy's hand was shaking where he curled the tendril of hair around his finger, making the gilded strand tremble. He wasn’t looking at Steve, but was apparently planning on keeping up that sharp, mean wit until his dying breath. 

Steve scrubbed his face with his knuckles, trying not to give Billy the rise he clearly wanted.  
“Are you seriously giving me more shit when I’m trying to help you?” Steve asked, large eyes skeptical that this guy was for real.  
“And Nancy’s not a bitch.” Steve crossed his arms tightly over his chest.

“But I guess, yeah, it is. His thing. I wouldn’t want a photo of your ugly mug laying around.” A slight smile curled at the edge of his mouth, lightening his features. “I already have to see it too much at school as is. And trust me, I’m sure Jonathan has some of you somewhere. Weird candid ones, from a distance.”  
Calling Jonathan a ‘creep’ wasn’t that far off, though he’d tried to treat the guy like a friend. _To be_ his friend. It was harder now.  
“So you can rest easy on that one, I’d bet he’s got you covered in that department.”

Billy glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, brow furrowing a bit, like he couldn’t really decide if Steve was serious or not.  
“Riiight.” He said slowly, unsure. “You serious, Harrington?”

Steve shrugged with a mild grin. “So if you’re done with your hair, you wanna go?” Steve didn’t answer his question. Let him sweat about it. He suspected Jonathan really had a stash, with dirt on everyone in town.

He raised a brow, watching Billy’s hands. Steve had a feeling that Billy was busying himself with the mirror because his other hand was gripping the edge of the counter hard enough to crack it, hips leaning into it – using it as a support.  
His knees were visibly shaky, even from Steve’s vantage point. Billy couldn’t move, and they both seemed to realize this at the same moment. The other boy ignored him for a moment, breathing hard through his nose for a second, eyes flickering as he suddenly went pale – he looked like he might throw up again, shoulders hunching up around his ears. He seemed to be thinking rather intensely, like maybe he was sizing up Steve's offer.

“It's f-funny…” Billy said, continuing on like Steve hadn’t mentioned getting out of there. “I’d call a girl that got on some other guy’s dick while she was still with me a bitch. Why…the fuck aren’t you? You’ve got some issues, Harrington.”  
He pressed his washed out lips together, those dark lashes forming ebony crescents on his cheeks. They stood out on his paper white skin, abnormal from his usual golden tan.

Steve slid up next to him to carefully wrap an arm around his back, up under his arm – Billy flinched again, at first, like Steve was going to hurt him, but once Steve leaned into him – offering his body as support instead of the formica counter - Billy went pliant against him. Staggering back from the sink as he wordlessly accepted Steve's offer of help.

“I’m just not an asshole. ” Steve muttered in reply.

“Yes, you are.” Billy huffed a pained laugh, wrapping his free arm around his stomach – the other draped over Steve’s shoulders. “This is a one time…thing. Not happening, ever again.” Billy grunted as Steve started to help him out of the bathroom.

The party was still going beyond the tiny, pink, safe haven of the bathroom where they’d been tucked away. ‘Hungry Like the Wolf’ made the floor vibrate under their feet.

“Don’t you think you can…feel me up like this… anytime.” Billy laughed dizzily between breaths, a little crazy in Steve’s ear, making Steve tense up with the hot wash of Billy’s breath on the shell of cartilage. 

“Yeah, obviously I’m feeling you up because I’m helping you walk. One time thing is right. I swear it won’t happen again. Christ.”  
Steve rolled his eyes heavenward, wondering again why he’d gotten himself into this with an asshole like Billy Hargrove.

But apparently nobody else had cared he was in there vomiting his guts out, despite him being like…the most popular guy in school right now. Steve knew something about that. Even if you were the most popular, that didn’t mean anybody gave an actual shit about you based off of status. When Billy was performing for them, they were all ecstatic. The second he was in a bad way, they were off doing other things.  
Figured.

Billy’s feet were sort of dragging beneath him as Steve helped him down the stairs, and he held onto the railing for fear of tripping, sending them both to their pathetic deaths from falling down the stairs in stupid freakin’ Nicky’s house.  
That’d be the way to go. Cause of death, ‘Feeling up’ Billy Hargrove.  
Steve snorted to himself.

“You know you like it, Harrington.” Billy laughed again, slurring his words, but when Steve glanced over at him incredulously, he saw that Billy’s eyes were still closed. 

A little line had formed between his dark brows, mouth pinched in pain or nausea. He was leaning heavily into Steve’s side, putting off heat like a furnace that matched the sheen of sweat at his brow and along the edges of his neck. Glistening beneath his lank curls.  
He looked like shit despite running his mouth like always.

“Let’s just get to the car.” Steve muttered, wrapping his arm more tightly around Billy’s waist as he dragged him through the living room and out the front door.

Steve actively ignored some of the stares they were getting as Billy blearily opened his eyes to flip them off with a shit eating grin.  
Once they were outside in the cool, crisp, late night air of March, Steve took a minute to pause. Billy weighed a fuckin’ ton, even if he didn’t look it – he was all heavy muscle and Steve always forgot how compact he was until he was barreling Steve down in basketball like a damn freight train. And now, he was practically dead weight against him.

Steve glanced up, gulping for some clean air, watching the tiny white pinpricks of stars in the blue-black expanse of sky. It was too cold in just his t-shirt, but his jacket was in the car. At least Billy was a bit better off in his leather jacket and half undone button up. Billy followed Steve's gaze upwards for a second, as if to see what he was looking at, then moaned as tilting his head back made the world spin. His spine furled forward instead, and he promptly threw up on Steve’s sneakers. Just liquid now. Steve jerked his feet, and looked down at his shoes in shock.

“Are you kidding me, Hargrove? Shit.” Steve exclaimed, still hanging onto Billy’s waist as his face curled in disgust and something like helpless amusement at this whole insane situation. What was his life tonight?

“Present for ya.” Billy muttered to the ground.

“JE-SUS, man…ugh…” Steve grunted, scuffing his shoes in the brown grass. 

He pulled Billy’s arm more tightly around his shoulders, gripping his wrist, grounding him. At least they were his black Nikes, the ones he wore for parties alone – not his favorite red strike ones. 

“You owe me a new pair of sneakers.”He groused.

“You can afford new ones, p-pretty boy, don’t gimme that shit.” Billy coughed. 

Steve wondered how it was possible to still be so sassy after being so sick.

“You better not throw up in my BMW. My parents will kill me.” Steve warned as he continued to drag Billy to the car.

“The Beamer? Like hell. Can’t leave my Camaro here.” Billy said stiffly, his feet dragging in the grass, trying to stop Steve’s progress. Like a stubborn ass digging in it’s hooves.

“Well you sure as fuck can’t drive it home. You can barely walk...”

“But Nicky’ll fuck with it, man. He’s a little tool, worse than your good friend Tommy.” Billy scowled up at him, eyes half lidded.

“I don’t know the guy. But worse than Tommy? Really. Whatever, I’ll come back for it, okay?” 

Steve tried to compromise. Anything to just get Billy in the car, to get out of here. Duran Duran was still pounding through the house behind him, and he was getting a wicked headache in the base of his skull. He was too tired and too done for this shit. He had Billy’s vomit on his shoes. This was his life.

“You don’t leave a scratch on her.” Billy conceded.

“What, for fear of death?”

“Damn straight.”

“S'pose that’s fair. Gimme your keys.”

Billy gave the keys up to Steve after digging them out of his pocket with a warning glance, a reminder of certain death if Steve hurt his precious Lenore. He could just hear him saying ‘Not a hair out of place, Harrington’ in his mind with that look alone. 

Steve finally got the unsteady Billy into the car after something of a struggle, reaching over him to snap his seat belt like some kind of soccer mom – made him think of how the kids had started calling him their ‘mom friend,’ or saying that he acted like their damn dad. Jesus they were right. He sighed, drumming his hands on the steering wheel after wiping his sneakers off in the grass. It hadn’t helped much.

He looked over at Billy, who’d gone lank against the seat belt, his head nodding sleepily, chin bobbing down against his bare chest - exposed above his low buttoned shirt and the lapels of his leather jacket.  
Steve felt something like…he didn’t know…some kind of weird, fond feeling bubbling up in his throat, seeing Billy like that. His face was lax, relaxed, not twisted up into a pissed, closed off, or gleeful show-off expression – the primary three that Steve was so used to. Sometimes ‘rabid’ was a rare bonus look.

Now, Billy just looked drowsy - but like he was fighting it – his head kept jerking up, eyes snapping open like he’d just realized he’d fallen asleep…before his chin started to drift south again. Steve laughed softly, turning the engine, and pressed play on the cassette player, already on ‘Take On Me’ by A-ha. Steve turned the volume down low. He was glad he hadn’t really gotten to drinking _that_ much yet by the time Becky had shown up – he was still sober enough to drive, and having to deal with Billy had definitely pushed him farther into the very-not-drunk zone. 

Steve’s eyes flicked to Billy a few times under the passing glow of the street lamps, lighting him up in the dead dark of the very early morning, or very late night. He was completely passed out in the passenger seat now, unable to fight it. It was like seeing a completely different person. With soft edges.  


It was…unusual, to the say the least. Especially after seeing the same person day in, day out, the one that was consistently trying to destroy Steve’s life and eradicate what had remained of his reputation at school. That is, before Steve’d completely stopped talking to him after Billy’d left him concussed.

This was the most they’d talked in months – since the incident at the Byers. And really, Billy hadn’t been talking to him, either. It had been almost like, mutual avoidance outside of basketball practice and gym. Steve gripped the steering wheel, staring straight ahead into the night, thinking. Billy was wasted tonight, sure, and obviously worse off than usual because of whatever drugs he’d been slipped.

When they were getting closer to Billy’s house, Steve started slowing down, wondering what exactly he should do – he’d dropped Max off here a few times, but he’d never gone inside, he’d never met Billy’s folks. He didn’t think they’d react kindly to him showing up at their door at three in the morning. And Billy was supposed to pick Max up in only a few hours, but he was passed out. Steve sighed, studying the small house from a distance – stalled in the road far enough away that he wasn’t noticeable.

He stared at Billy for a second – Billy, who was out cold in the other seat, chin resting against his chest, with only the seat belt preventing him from slumping forward. Steve squinted. He’d gotten the gist that Billy’s dad was strict from Max, knew Billy needed to pick the girl up or there’d be some kind of trouble. Maybe he could take Billy to his own house, get him sobered up, then help him get Max in a couple hours so it seemed like Billy did it.

That actually seemed like a pretty reasonable plan, and possibly the best idea to not get Billy in trouble. Steve flipped a bitch, and headed in the opposite direction towards his house instead. He’d drop Billy off at his house, let him sleep it off on the couch, then he’d have to walk back to Nicky’s house to get the Camaro. It was gonna be a long couple of hours. 

But he hadn’t even been thinking of how tired he’d been since he’d walked in that bathroom. Not really. He’d just been feeling alive – alive and needed.


	3. I'm not jealous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> March 30th, 1985

It’s more than a slight struggle to get Billy into the house – guiding him up the driveway, through the front door. Trying to yank off Billy’s boots as the guy leans against the wall, because his mom doesn’t allow shoes on the carpet. She'll strike the fear of God into the heart of anyone who would dare mark up her paper white, shag plush carpet. If she was actually home, anyways. But Steve wasn’t going to cross that line after walking around on damp spring earth and vomit. He didn’t want the consequences later.

He threw the offending boots against the wall by his own soiled black sneakers, before continuing to help Billy away from the door – that long arm slung over Steve’s shoulders, half dragging the guy. Billy’s at least half conscious now after Steve accidentally managed to slam his head into the car door on the way out of the Beamer, leaving the other teen sputtering, cursing, and awake enough to kick Steve solidly in the shin for his trouble. It’ll leave a bruise, he thinks.

Now, Billy was looking around with those half drugged cornflower blue eyes, taking everything in with a peculiar look on his face – mouth drawn into a long line, that gaze closed off, but his mind clearly ticking away with something. A slight wrinkle at the bridge of his nose like he’s smelled something spoiled.

“Nice place you got here, Harrington.” He mumbles. Steve doesn’t think he believes him. Billy’s face says the opposite.

And well it’s nice enough until Steve reaches the couch – depositing Billy like a sack of potatoes onto the pure white cushions. There are two twin sofas, as white as the carpet, facing each other – with a brown mahogany coffee table in between on top of a crimson rug that feels like velvet.

His mom likes modern style – she’s constantly having the house redecorated to keep up with new trends, even if they’re hardly ever here – but when she IS home, there’s usually a re-decorator hot on her heels, while she’s snapping her fingers and pointing to what she wants changed. Make those drapes over the sliding glass door reach the floor, with puffed fabric at the top – make them floral, make them silk. Make them match the crimson rug, the color of wine and roses.

However, his mom hasn’t been home in a while – and Steve’s been having trouble sleeping in his own room. His room is too big, like a cavern, and he’s too far from an exit for his liking. And his bed is a king size – a mattress that’s more likely to swallow him than anything, in a dark lonely night with navy silk sheets and a white down comforter that will smother him. Too big to be alone in.

He needs a closer space that doesn’t go on forever around him. Like the couch, in close proximity to the front door. So Steve’s taken to sleeping down here, with an afghan thrown over the pure white sofa. Right now it’s slumped at the end of the couch, near Billy’s side. More blankets folded at the end.

Honestly it feels like a weird little haven or a teenage-boy-nest that he’s built around the TV and the fireplace – empty beer cans crumpled around the base of the coffee table, glinting aluminum on the carpet, and open text books, spiral notebooks, and crumpled rejects of essay papers littering the mahogany table. A D&D character sheet among them. Ashes in the fireplace like it’s been used recently.

The massive, big brown wood-paneled box of a 24” TV has been pulled forward on it’s stand, bunny ears twisted, the Nintendo hooked up to it from where Steve brought it down from his room. His wooden record player is on the floor to the side of the TV stand – the cord trailing to the wall. Record sleeves stacked on it, just like how VHS tapes tower in stacks on the VCR, some in their cases, some black and bare.

The TV is still on a blue screen, and all of the lights are on in the house, even though Steve hasn’t been home in hours. He can’t come home to it being dark, shadows clinging in the corners, ready to jump out. He’s not worried about a power bill. He doesn’t pay it.

“Uh yeah, I guess if you like that sorta thing. Thanks. Sorry about the mess, though.” Steve waved a hand absently at the trash, schoolwork, and the things he busied himself with on late nights when he couldn’t sleep for fear of dreaming.

Movies and music and Super Mario Bro.’s and D&D rules, and as a last resort, homework that he knew he’d fail. But it kept him busy trying, at least. However, Billy didn’t seem to care about the mess, didn’t notice it. He shrugged, slumped into the cushions like they were half devouring him as he sank into the sofa. Shoulders tense, blue eyes watchful, looking around a lot as if to get his bearings, consistently coming back to Steve like the one constant in the soaring, high ceiling living room.

Billy leaned forward from the grasping cushion almost absently, reaching out to grab one of the vinyls from the top of the stack, studying it – swaying a little in his seat. Steve just stood there awkwardly, chewing on a thumbnail, mind elsewhere – thinking about needing to walk back to Nicky’s and getting back in time for them to pick up Max, and to get Billy somewhat sober. He can start that now, though.

“Do you want some coffee? How do you take it? Maybe some water, too. I have some saltines.” Steve nodded his head towards the kitchen questioningly. Dropped his hand from his mouth. Put it back.

“Black.” Billy replied, squinting at the record sleeve, trying to bring it in focus.

Steve shifted on his feet. Overly aware of Billy Hargrove in his house. In his living room. On his couch. Taking coffee black, which, why wasn’t Steve surprised? He figured he could start to get Billy somewhat sober considering he was actually awake now.

“Okay, hang on.” Steve glances once at Billy, turning the LP over in his hands, reaching for another – before he walks into the kitchen. Starts busying himself making coffee, waiting for it to start perking, when he hears Billy’s voice call from the other room – sound carries well from there, especially because there’s no kitchen door, just an open awning.

“You’ve got the worst taste in music I’ve ever _SEEN_ , Harrington.” Billy called, a sneer in his voice.

Steve rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, like he was asking it for patience.

“Who asked you?” Steve yelled back, getting two mugs out of the cupboard – one was a ceramic one that Dustin made him in Ceramics class – it’s kind of lopsided and unhappy looking, with the Hawkins green glaze reading ‘#1 Dad.’ The kids had thought it was a huge fuckin’ joke and Dustin had howled with laughter when that joke landed after Steve opened the gift box on Christmas.

He hated those nerds. He loved those nerds.

It was the only mug he used.

The other mug was actually sane, with a fat picture of Garfield sitting on it, looking smugly at the drinker like his fluffy, orange striped fur was full of secrets.

“Nobody needed to a-ask me, this is a cry for help, you need – some taste, Harrington. This is a…damn tragedy. How the hell…STEVIE NICKS? Oh my God. _GENESIS?!_ You have GENESIS ON VINYL I HATE YOU. I’M GONNA THROW UP AGAIN.” Billy was yelling and howling with mirth. Like an angry laugh. It was weird - Steve didn’t think he’d heard Billy laugh before, and even that sounded sharp at the edges. Like broken glass.

How Billy went from being passed out to energetically tearing apart Steve’s music tastes were beyond him. Steve felt heat crawl up his neck.

“If you throw up again on principle I swear I’m kicking your ass to the curb. Just, so fuckin’ what, leave those alone, Christ! ”

“ _NO_ chance! This…this is fuckin’ gold! I’m losing my shit. Do you love Phil Collins? Do you?” Billy crowed back.

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose to suppress his grief, cheeks hot. He snatched the blue and white dishtowel form the edge of the counter, wadded it up, and stepped out of the archway to throw it solidly at Billy’s head from the back. It made him laugh harder.

“You’re such a dick,” Steve grumbled before he went back to start pouring the coffee.

When he came back out – three sugar cubes and a hefty amount of milk in his own coffee – Billy had slid down to the floor and was screwing around with the record player. The towel draped around his shoulders like he might if he was working out in the school gym.

Steve set the mug in front of Billy on the coffee table, shoving aside some crumpled papers to do so. He’d also brought a box of saltines under his arm, and a cup of water. Billy glanced at it all skeptically, then to Steve’s coffee, an eyebrow raised. Sprawled against the base of the couch in his too tight jeans and that low, low buttoned blue shirt and bare chest and rumpled curls, eyes still pink. Jaw rough with stubble as he grinned like a cocky dick up at Steve.

“You just drinking warm milk or what, huh?”

Steve scowled back at him. “It’s coffee.” He said pointedly.

Billy raised a single brow at him, clearly amused at how sweet Steve took his coffee. Seemed delighted with the information, another spot to worry at until it was sore. Steve took a gulp of it and looked away, feeling exposed and examined and he didn’t like it. Billy flashing his canines at him like everything was so funny. Billy drank his own coffee from his Garfield mug, dark as his fuckin’ soul, and Steve sighed into his mug.

“You call that coffee? An why the fuck yours say #1 Dad?” Billy asked after a second of screwing around more with his records.

“Don’t ask.” Steve said.

“I already did.” Billy said like Steve was slow.

“Well, no reason then.”

Billy snorted. “Did your stupid Whiz Kids make that for you? Aww. That’s touching.” Billy said in this sickly sweet voice, hand pressed against his heart, heating up the back of Steve’s neck with yet more embarrassment. “Fuck you.”

Jesus, when he brought Billy back he’d expected him to be passed out on the couch, not tearing him down for literally anything and everything. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, considering who he was talking about. But why Billy was so talkative with him now was something of a mystery, after months of radio silence once Max had drugged and nearly knocked his dick off with a baseball bat full of nails.

Steve supposed it was possible Billy was always this talkative when he was drunk – even though Steve had still been studiously ignored by him when he’d been around Billy drinking at parties before.

Which was a complete 160 from every time previous to that night at the Byers. Billy had always been pushing him, pushing him, needling him – everywhere, especially at parties. Valiantly replacing Steve’s own drinking status with the school population.

But…Steve didn’t know. Even though Billy was mocking him, surprise surprise, there was something almost…easy about it. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It was like a unique dynamic. He almost wanted to say it was like friends just giving each other shit – but that wasn’t right, because they weren’t friends. This wasn’t some casual hang out. They were like some kind of arch nemesis, right?

They were quiet for a bit as they drank out of their respective mugs, both drinks varying in tone. Billy put on one of Steve’s LP’s, apparently one of the only ones he could stand or found bearable – ‘one record I could salvage from the shit,’ Billy said - David Bowie’s _Let’s Dance_ album.

As ‘Modern Love’ started to play, Billy muttered ‘well at least you’re not _HOPELESS,_ ’ with Steve’s reply ‘Who _DOESN’T_ like Bowie, asshole?’ 

But despite that, he caught Billy humming under his breath to the song and they both sat in companionable silence, listening to the music as Steve mouthed along with the words. Billy DID like it. By the time they reached the song ‘Let’s Dance,’ one of Steve’s favorites on the album, he noticed Billy’s shirt. It was gross from getting sick.

Steve set his empty mug down on the table, Billy’s head starting to loll back against the edge of the couch, eyes half closed, one knee drawn up as the other leg sprawled out beneath the table.

“I knew you liked Bowie. ‘Salvaged from the shit,’ my ass. Hey uh, do you wanna borrow a shirt? Yours is dirty.” He pointed at Billy’s shirt, only buttoned just above his navel. Billy glanced down like this was news to him, half aware, half not.

He shrugged. “Don’t care.”

Either way, Steve got up and retrieved him one of his own dark green sweaters from his room – it was kind of cold, cold enough for a sweater. When he got back downstairs, Bowie was singing about _‘swaying through the crowd to an empty space,’_ and _‘running.’_ Steve handed the sweater to Billy.

“You can change into that.” He said.

But he didn’t expect Billy to start changing right THERE, right NOW, but he was and he did. He slid the dishtowel off of his shoulders like it was supposed to be seductive, or maybe funny. Then he was out of his leather jacket, slinging the supple fabric over the arm of the couch behind him. He seemed to wince with the movement, drawing in a sharp breath. Steve had settled back on the opposite couch, blinking at Billy suddenly stripping off his clothes – well okay it wasn’t like THAT, but still. He tried looking down in his lap, but his eyes kept on going back to Billy.

It wasn’t like this wasn’t something he’d seen before. And they’d just been shooting the shit kind of like almost-friends, a one time thing, so he didn’t really get it. It just felt different than being in gym, surrounded by other gross, sweaty guys.

This felt close. This felt intimate. Billy was leaning against the couch Steve slept on.

He was unbuttoning the remaining buttons of his navy blue button up, one that brought out the blue of his eyes. Exposing the long line of his chest, the beginning of his abs. Bowie was singing about _‘trembling like a flower,’_ now. Steve gulped for air, trying to look anywhere else, but his gaze felt magnetized – could Billy tell Steve was watching him?

Of course he could. He was watching Steve watch him.

Steve wondered how Billy stayed so sun kissed tan in Indiana, after long months of being away from California. As Billy slid the shirt from his shoulders, tongue between his teeth, Steve was reminded how built Billy was. And maybe Steve was still a little buzzed himself, because he couldn’t look away. His brain felt shaky.

Those wicked blue eyes – still hazy, a little unfocused – were hooked into Steve.

But Steve suddenly went still, eyes widening a bit, his dark gaze dropping – now he really couldn’t help but stare. He was definitely staring, brows furrowed. His brain didn’t feel as shivery, but no less confused.

No wonder Billy had had his arm wrapped around his stomach earlier – along his exposed upper stomach, right around the edges of his lower ribs, the skin was mottled an angry purple, tinged with blackish-blue. He’d been throwing up with that damage? Billy grinned that shit eating grin, arching his back a little against the side of the couch like a stretching cat, all fierce teeth and over bright, glazed eyes. Like the bruises didn’t matter. Didn't hurt. 

Bowie was announcing _‘let’s dance!’_ Steve blinked.

“I’ve seen you looking before.” Billy smirked, and he was so fuckin’ drunk still, coffee or not. Maybe a little better than before. “You just like what you see? Or you jealous? What is it? You want it, Harrington? That it?”

Steve’s nostrils flared, dark eyes going wide as chocolate coins. He sputtered. “I – what – no. I’m not jealous. I don’t – what?” He gripped his knees with both hands, leaning away.

“Oh, you’re not jealous? So you do want it.” Billy purred, waggled his brows at him, tongue flicking out in that way it did. Hips shifting on the rose-red rug like sin. His eyes were burning into Steve’s goddamn soul, he thought. Fuck.

Steve went red for the umpteenth time that night. He could actually feel the blood rush to his skin, tingling against his cheeks. From the tips of his ears down to his chest. Bowie was crying _‘moonlight, serious moonlight,’_ and _‘dance, dance, dance, dance, dance!’_

“You’re fuckin’ wasted, Hargrove.” Steve grit out through his teeth.

“I don’t hear you denying it.” Billy pushed.

“Well I am! Denying it! _No_ – no way. Okay? You don’t even – I don’t even – I was wondering what the fuck happened to your ribs, that’s all. That’s it! Jesus. Did you get in a fight, or what?”

Billy had looked like he was about to say _‘liar,’_ but instead, his mouth snapped shut real quick, that playful light leaving his eyes. He gripped the forest green sweater tight in his lap. He said nothing.

Steve stood up fast. The next song on the record was changing to _‘Without you.’_

“I - I need to go get your car. Just…sleep it off or something for a while. When I get back, we’re getting Max. Shit.” Steve twisted on his heel to leave. Billy struggled to start pulling on the sweater, having trouble with his messed up stomach. Steve grabbed his jacket. He had to get out of there. “And eat some goddamn saltines!”


	4. You can't keep doing this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> March 30th, 1985

It had been a couple hours, and for the most part, Billy supposed he didn’t feel that wasted anymore. He mostly just felt sick at this point, with a headache to end all headaches. That, and he felt like he’d been run over by a truck. Or maybe a train. Truck or train, either way, he felt like shit. And he was so _TIRED_. He wondered what the drug had been. Rohypnol – fondly called the roofie drug out west – was available over the counter in California. You could pick it up easy in a drug store, or any store with supplements.

He hadn’t seen it on shelves in Indiana, however. Who knew what the difference was? Maybe there were just less people addicted to drugs or body building here for it to be necessary or readily available. Hell, he didn’t even know if that’s what it had been. Could have been anything, he was taking a wild guess about it, honestly.

He hadn’t personally been on this side of that particular drug before - he didn’t think - but he’d known soon enough to get it out of his system once he started to feel it. To purge it. This could have been a lot worse.  
Unfortunately the effects of whatever it was had hit him anyway, at least to a degree, and he felt woozy and achy and not quite right. Teetering on the edge. But at least he wasn’t mindlessly fucking in some back room without knowing what was going on – not that it hadn’t happened before, but still.

He liked, needed, to have _control_ over when he was _out_ of control, and when he wasn’t – but it was honestly rare for him to not be in control. He fought for control. And it may have been ironic, to need to control when you were controlled, but what the fuck ever. His ribs still hurt like a bitch, so obviously the drugs weren’t good enough to take care of that.  
The violent vomiting also hadn’t helped the bruised ribs. Usually he could get along fine when Neil decided to go after him with his steel toed boots once he was already on the ground – he could suck it the fuck up and go about his day and bare his teeth in a grin instead of a grimace.

But being bent over a pink – yeah, _pink_ toilet and convulsing over the edge of the rim had him feeling like he’d just gotten the shit kicked out of him all over again. With those steel-toed boots. Billy grit his molars together, glaring out the window of his Camaro as Harrington drove his own damn car.  
It had been a fucking fight for Harrington to drive - the guy still had his keys, though, and he was on a time limit to get Maxine back home. Billy wasn’t ready to wrap his car around a tree with the kid in the back.

Now, the young girl in question was plopped on the bench seat in the back - her lime green duffle bag, full of her overnight stuff, held against her chest like some kind of shield. Skateboard at her side. Surrounded by her constant cloud of red hair, all frizzy and sticking up a little. Billy could feel her pale blue eyes warily stuck to the back of his head, and he ignored her. Didn’t look back, didn’t give her the time of day.

Instead, he just sucked down the nicotine smoke of his cigarette, the window cracked, and breathed out a cloud against the glass. Watched it filter out into the cool spring air, still foggy this early in the morning. The smoke blended with the mist like it belonged. It was thick enough by now that Harrington had the lights on, and the white moisture heavy air pressed in on all sides of the muscled, navy blue Camaro. Lenore.

And yeah it’d been a fight for Harrington to drive, but honestly Billy’s head was still spinning, so the idea of actually driving made him feel like throwing up again. Even riding in the passenger seat made him want to put his head between his legs, but he honestly had too much damn pride.  
No, even as Harrington shifted gears, Billy couldn’t muster up the desire to drive right now.

He kept the back of his head pressed firm against the leather headrest, eyes still on the window – watching the shimmer of his own reflection, the bright end of his cigarette the most vibrant part, like a bullseye. Billy closed his eyes.

Billy had snapped the volume of the radio down to power it off at first – because it was too early for K99 and his head was going to split in two. Now, the silence felt like oppression. Now, he changed his mind. He reached out and flicked the radio back on, which was just starting the song Mirror Mirror – blaring through the speakers in the car. The base deep enough to feel it in his belly – and definitely in his skull.  
He felt more than saw Harrington and Maxine flinch, because the volume was up loud and fast and intense compared to the previous, stifling silence. It hammered through the car.

“Whoo, here’s some real music for you, Harrington! Listen and learn!” Billy shouted, feeling a little unglued, grinding his molars against the pulse of the heavy music in his ears.

Then he was pulling those sharp teeth into a fierce grimace grin – directing it at Harrington, like a dare to touch the radio to turn it off. Turn it down. Start a fight. Eyes feeling a little wild. Mouth a little too wide.  
Harrington glanced at him once with a flat look, not rising to the bait – it pissed Billy off - Harrington’d been weird since he got back with Lenore. Wasn’t playing with him as much. But Billy got some satisfaction as those long, steady fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Those dark, whiskey brown eyes looking back at the road. A muscle in Harrington's jaw moved. It was something.

Harrington was such a safe driver. Took his turns at a careful speed. That ticked Billy off, too. But he didn’t want Harrington to go faster. He wanted to go slower if possible. Because they were driving home now – if you could call it that. They were driving to the house where Billy lived. The house that his dad owned. The word ‘home’ was a myth, a fairy tale. It was a roof over his head.

Billy felt stretched out and dangerous, a nervous energy humming under his skin. He had never gone back to the house last night. Normally he would have slipped in through his window hours ago before his old man could know he’d even been gone.  
But Neil would have checked on him before six, before he was supposed to get Maxine – he’d had chores to finish before picking the girl up. He should have been up at least by 4:30, and he knew Neil would be pissed when he found Billy’s bed empty.  
Billy had meant to leave the party well before he’d started throwing his guts up.

He drummed his thumbs, his fingertips, against the thighs of his tight blue jeans, nodding his head slightly to the beat – ignoring the way it made the world tilt. Baring his teeth at it. Billy felt bits of glass beneath his skin and they were about to tear through.  
Harrington had clammed up beside him, like he knew better than to open that mouth of his – maybe he was just tired. He looked tired, dark smudges under his eyes, hair a little deflated. Either way, it was a miracle. The guy never knew when to shut up. 

Maxine wasn’t so smart.  
“What happened to you?” She finally demanded from the backseat. Like he owed her some kind of fucking explanation. She had to shout a little to be heard over the blare of Def Leppard. “You look like shit!”

Billy twisted around in his seat, glaring her down – a hand latching onto the center console with the movement.  
“None of your damn business Maxine!” He snapped – his growl deep enough to be heard over the music.

Maxine jutted her stupid little chin out and he could tell she was revving up to fight him on it.  
“God Billy, I’m just asking! You look – well I dunno, sick or something!” She yelled.

Harrington was glancing between the two of them, half trying to keep an eye on the road. “Woah, hey guys, calm down – “

“Did I ask for your opinion, dipshit?” Billy asked Maxine, gripping the console tighter.

His knuckles were itching, the bones in his fingers aching to release the tension that was coiling in his muscles. He glared a warning at Maxine, telling her with his eyes to shut up, shut up, shut up. Don’t push it. Shut up. He couldn’t stop thinking about going back to the house, and his head hurt, and he was going to throw up again. He felt bile in the back of his throat. It made him feel like lashing out.

“Were you at some party?” Maxine demanded. She was feeling real fucking feisty this morning, apparently. And real stupid. “Is that why Steve is driving? Did you – did you even go home?”  
She sounded a little horrified at that last line, and her eyes were all wide and big in her face, too blue, and her mouth was this tiny little thin line.

Like she knew. But she didn’t know. Not really. Billy’d made sure of that.  
She looked fiery and scared at the same time – a weird combo look that Billy’s only ever seen on the kid’s face. Like she was ready to kick his ass even as she was terrified of him.

And he’d left her alone – for the most part – since she nearly knocked his dick off with some bat made of nails. What even was that?

On that insane night at that freak Byer’s house, which Billy is still blurry about – aside from laying into Harrington’s face and Maxine still being around Sinclair despite his damn warnings.  
Sinclair, who, if his dad saw – if his dad knew – Jesus it would be so bad. Billy couldn’t see Maxine and Sinclair together again. He was supposed to watch her. It would be the end of him. Neil would finally get around to killing Billy if he found out who Maxine had been hanging around with – let alone holding hands with or whatever they did.

Personally, Billy didn’t give a damn about her stupid friends and that boy Sinclair – as long as she didn’t go and get herself knocked up like some of the chicks in California he’d seen – (and as long as nobody messed with her, because only Billy could give her shit, nobody else.) Billy didn’t care otherwise.

But Neil cared. Neil cared a LOT. And when Neil cared, it usually ended in breaking things. Breaking people. Breaking Billy. Fuck, that's probably where Billy'd learned it, he supposed. How to break others. It was Billy who’d be eating shit for it if those two nerds got caught, not Maxine-Golden-Child.  
Because someone had to take the blame, and it wasn’t going to be her. Susan wouldn’t let that happen anyway, he thought. Billy didn’t have anyone on his side like that. Billy bared his teeth at Maxine like a wolf demanding her acquiescence – not that she ever gave it.

“Woah, hey Max, it wasn’t Billy’s fault – “ Harrington was protesting, one hand held up in the air like some mediator, but he couldn’t seem to get a word in between the two step-siblings. They were ignoring him almost entirely.

Yeah, Billy’d been leaving Maxine alone a lot – giving her her space or whatever, laying off the kids like he said he would. He hadn’t laid hands on her, hadn’t grabbed her wrist, nothin'. But right now he’d been hit by that truck or train whatever and he wasn’t in the mood for her stupid shit. For her pushing and her needling. He was just so TIRED.

“It’s always his fault!” Maxine sputtered, gasping like Harrington was stupid.

Harrington shifted gears, irritation making the motion jerky, but Billy was watching Maxine. His shoulder pressed against the seat where he was twisted around to face her. The base thrummed in his stomach, rattling his bones. Billy hadn’t been thinking much of anything about fault or not – it usually was his fault, but this time, he - … no – no, she was right. It was always his fault. His dad had drilled that into him enough that it was like second nature to accept his blame in most everything.

It’d been his fault he’d drank that girls drink, probably sucked up the drugs meant for her. Unless someone had really wanted Billy senseless on his back for a good ride.  
It was his own fault he felt like this either way.  
But there were a few things he wouldn’t take the fall for. Coming from California was one, and he latched onto that in the face of her accusation.

“Yeah, keep sayin’ it, Maxine.” Billy sneered, sniffing, dragging in a long breath from his cigarette. He blew a face full of smoke into the backseat at his step-sister. She fumed in the haze, clenching her small fists into the slick fabric of her duffle bag. It made a weird shuffling sound in her grip.

Things had been going better when he’d been mostly ignoring her. Now they were just jabbing at each other again. And Billy was too on edge going home. He didn’t know what to expect – or maybe he did, and that was the real problem. He hadn’t fucked up recently. He’d been trying to be better. It was all for nothing now.

“Yeah, it’s always my fault, huh? But it isn’t my fault we’re fuckin’ here, is it?!” Billy’s jaw hardened into a mean, sharp line as she met him eye for eye. Not backing down.  
He refused to take the blame for that one, at least. “Gotta deal with this piece of shit town somehow – and that’s all on _YOU_.”  
He snapped, pointing at her with the fingers holding the cigarette between them.

Because that one was her fault. That was on _HER_. And how else could he get by if he couldn’t get drunk like the new Keg King, or high if he could get the right kind of shit weed from Tommy Hoult sometimes? Huh? How?

“How else’m I gonna survive this _SHIT-FEST, MAXINE?!_ ”

“WOAH SHUT UP Hargrove, she’s just a kid! Leave her alone! And Max, you too! Leave him alone! Jesus! Just – just _SHUT UP_ you guys, just, at least until we get there!” Harrington was yelling now too, gesturing wildly with one hand – it was great, just fuckin’ great. He sounded like a dad trying to keep the kids apart in the backseat during a road trip.

“NO!” Maxine’s fingers were shaking a little on her stupid green bag. Green like her jacket. She was ramping up into something like her crazy hysteria, she got like that sometimes, all righteous spitting fury. Her eyes were still locked with Billy’s. “No! You can’t keep doing this! Billy – well, look at you! What’s gonna happen!? You didn’t go home!”

Billy’d seen himself in the mirror. He’s had better days.  
“I TOLD YOU IT WAS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!” Billy yelled, his shoulders taut.

“But – but what if he – “ Max started, but that was it, and Billy was grabbing the shoulder of his seat now like he was gonna crawl into the backseat and make her shut up.  
Maxine’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click.

But Billy didn’t make it back there. He felt the sharp look that Harrington burned into the side of his head, and the confused little look he threw back at Max at the _‘but what if he -.’_ Harrington’s forearm had been thrown across Billy’s chest like some kind of soccer mom that put her arm out when she was keeping a kid in his seat when she braked too suddenly.

Billy’d flinched, hard, at the sudden contact - the movement too fast. Unexpected. Then Billy stared at Harrington in disbelief, his back thrown into the seat before he forcefully swatted that protective arm away. The other guy was staring at him, all big brown eyes.

“You don’t know how to mind your own shit either, do you Harrington? What the fuck you even doing here? Bringing me to your damn mansion? Chauffeuring me and your little Muppet Baby around? Huh?! You should have just left me there!” Billy chomped out the words, his teeth clicking with the force of each syllable. “Why DO YOU CARE?”

Harrington turned his eyes back to the road, a little wild eyed, the hand that had reached out to stop Billy wrapping up into his hair, making it stand up like he was a crazy person. Pulling at it.  
Maxine was breathing hard in the back, puffing against some of the red flyaway hairs in front of her face. 

The radio was screaming at them, too loud. Making Billy’s head split, making his ears burn. But it felt good. It drowned out the thoughts in his brain. He wanted that burn to wash out his brain like acid.  
Billy hissed out a long breath like helium being let out of a balloon at the appeal of that thought – sounding like a pissed off cat.

“I JUST DO, okay? I wasn’t gonna just leave you there. And I couldn’t drop you on your porch passed out, either, so! Would you have preferred I rang your doorbell? And I wasn’t letting you pick up Max alone! You’d both’ve _DIED_.” Harrington was breathing hard, nostrils flaring wide, knuckles of one hand white on the wheel. Still pulling at his hair a little with the other, stressed.

Billy let out a mean, hard laugh, letting the sound of the glass from his insides slide together. “YEAH HARRINGTON!” He shouted, feeling the roar deep in his lungs. “CAN’T FORGET _MAXINE_ , CAN WE?!”

“How is that all you hear? I’m not only talking about her!”

Harrington slammed on the brakes suddenly. Billy had to slap a hand on the dash to stop himself from going forward, half jumping in his seat. Harrington didn’t put out his soccer-mom arm again. Harrington’d been hedging on him about his seat belt, but he hadn’t put it on - mostly out of spite, but he rarely wore it. They were’t that important. Billy glanced at the other teen incredulously at how quickly he’d stopped the Camaro. It had shocked him enough he forgot he’d been yelling, was ramping up.  
“What the fuck, pretty boy?”

Harrington glanced at him stiffly, out of the corner of one brown eye. Looking shifty and unsure.  
“We’re here.” He bit out.

Billy almost couldn’t hear him over the hammering music on the radio. But when the words sank in, Billy jumped in his seat like he’d been shocked, twisting to face the window. Body rotating toward the rectangular silhouette of his house through the fog. He felt like he’d swallowed a bucket of ice water, squelching the fire in his stomach, leaving nothing but hissing coals in his intestines.

He impulsively slammed a palm flat over the power button, turning the radio off immediately. Plunging the car back into silence, besides the hum of the engine – idling after Harrington’d shifted it into park at the curb.  
His dad hated him playing his radio too loud. It was too early in the morning to be blaring it like that – it wasn’t respectful to the neighbors.

Billy swallowed hard, glancing at the hazy house, feeling some of the color drain from his face. His rage had eased from a boil down to a simmer in the base of his belly. Now it just felt like a sick, sour soup simmering away.

The three of them sat for a few minutes in the silence. Looking at the fog. At the house. The tense, charged atmosphere of the Camaro interior rapidly dwindled into something like silent dread. It was filled only by the sounds of three sets of breath, as the energy steadily began ramping down. Billy was having some trouble breathing, though, so he tried matching it with Harrington’s, rigid fingers curled up against his thighs.

Then Maxine was struggling in the back, pushing against Billy’s seat for him to move it and let her out.  
“Move your ass!” She muttered, her soft voice suddenly loud in the quiet. 

After rolling up his window on autopilot, Billy grabbed the door handle with fingers that shook a little, trying to hide it.  
He got out, boots first, ass second, letting the seat slide forward. He didn’t look at Harrington again. He stepped out into the thick cloud of mist – barely able to make out the outline of the white house and the porch beyond the cracked sidewalk.

He stood there on the curb in Harrington’s ridiculous – but terribly soft – cashmere, forest green sweater. It was Hawkins green. When he grabbed his leather coat from the seat to sling it over his arm, he didn’t meet Harrington’s big doe eyes - even though he could feel them trying to catch his own.

“Get out of my car. Give me the keys.” Billy snapped. Blue eyes down, on the cracks at his feet. Wanting to disappear into them.

Even if he couldn’t see it well, Billy could feel the presence of the house at his back like the very real heat from a fire. Maxine had scrambled out of the back seat and was already running up the walkway, clutching her duffel bag and her board as she made a beeline to the porch door. She had nothing to fear there.

She called out a brief ‘thanks, Steve!’ – her voice trembling a little before Harrington waved back reassuringly. Billy hated it, that waver in her tone. He felt sick. He’d screamed at her again. Almost done more, if Harrington hadn’t held him back with his soccer-mom arm. Fuck. But she’d almost said…almost said…that. In front of him. Glancing over his shoulder, Billy could barely see the red flame of her hair through the fog – the rest of her string bean body disappeared in the white.

Harrington sighed and turned the engine off. Got out. Tossed the keys to Billy, who caught them easily in midair. Billy didn’t say thank you. He turned around and started up the walkway towards the house in Maxine’s footsteps.

“You’re welcome.” Harrington mumbled, sounding annoyed and kind of…worried.

Billy huffed out a sigh. Tried not to look into that worried tone. Crushed his mostly spent cigarette filter beneath the heel of his boot.

“Look, uh…are you - “ Harrington started, but didn’t seem to know how to finish. Billy could still hear the ‘okay?’ at the end of the sentence, though. Unspoken. He looked like he was worried about leaving Billy at his own house or something. 

Maxine’s poor choice of words, the _‘what if he -’_ was ringing in Billy’s ears - rattling around in his brain, and he wondered if Steve could hear it, too. Wondering what it meant. The bruises on his ribs.

“Just get outta here, Harrington. Don’t come back. ” Billy snapped, still refusing to look at him. So Harrington went.

Once the other boy was leaving on foot, Billy only paused one time on the old, crumbling cement walk. He looked back when he was sure Harrington was far enough away. And he stood there, counting seconds as he silently watched Steve Harrington’s back disappearing through the fog. Starting the long walk back to the rich side of town through the oppressive mist. The complete opposite side of Hawkins from Billy, through the heavy, wet cold. He’d done a lot of walking this morning, for Billy. Neither of them had slept. Billy hadn’t said thank you.

The bob of that huge, pompadour-esque brown hair against the fog was the last thing Billy really saw, along with the slump of Harrington’s shoulders, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket.  
Then he was gone, swallowed up.  
Billy’s throat stuttered as he swallowed, airway too tight. His fists clenched in his jacket as he turned to go inside, unconsciously burrowing deeper into the plush green sweater. He was unsure, yet also too sure, of what he’d face past that door. But he had nowhere else to go.

This was his own fault. Maxine had been right. And he had it coming.


	5. I'm going to take care of you, okay?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys - just a warning that there's physical abuse in this chapter, so if you need to, please skip it!
> 
> March 30th, 1985

It didn’t happen right away. Sometimes it didn’t. Usually the delay was caused by Susan and Maxine’s presence in the house – like maybe Neil wanted to spare them the embarrassment of having to witness him ‘discipline’ Billy. Again. But most of the time, Billy wished Neil would just get it over with, because waiting seemed to be the worst of it. Not knowing when the storm was going to break, and lightning would strike the tree, engulfing it in flames.

All he really wanted to do was sulk into his room to go to sleep for the rest of the day – he was exhausted from his gastric acrobatics from last night, and not sleeping at all for it. It’d be a while until he went to another party, he thought to himself.

But he knew the sleeping scenario would only have two outcomes – it would make his dad angrier that Billy was being lazy and sleeping during the daytime hours, and it was also possible he would follow Billy in there to make the punishment for his absence quiet – away from roaming eyes. Speed up the process. And Billy was okay with trying to wait him out, even if the wait was killing him with the suspense.

He knew Susan didn’t care. Susan’d watched it happen without flinching before, standing as still as a piece of furniture in the background. But they seemed to like to keep Maxine away from it. Billy suspected that was Susan’s doing. His old man would probably have wanted Maxine to see how to toe the straight and narrow, or she’d end up just like Billy.

So that’s how Billy ended up on the couch next to Maxine. There was lingering tension between the step siblings from him shouting at her in the car – it’d been a while since he’d done that. Her jaw was clenched, her chin jutting out, arms crossed over her chest as she sat at the opposite end of the couch from him. She was acting all righteous with her red hair flaring out around her shoulders, not looking at him. He hated that tension. Things honestly had been going better, but now it felt like before. Like when they’d first moved here.

The TV was on, a little static-y because their reception was shit, and Billy felt like throwing up from the pain in his head but he sat there rigidly against the arm of the sofa, head of golden curls laying back against the scratchy floral cushion. The TV yammered in the background like the adults on Peanuts. His dad hadn’t come out of his room yet, but Billy knew Susan had gone back there to tell him Billy and Maxine were home. 

He felt like he could feel his pops anger from here, radiating through the walls, and he felt sicker and colder when Susan came out from the back of the house to start busying herself uselessly in the kitchen.  
She was making breakfast, pouring cereal into two bowls – one for Maxine, and one for herself – the clatter of it hitting the cheap plastic obnoxiously loud.

“Maxy girl,” Susan called into the living room. “Do you want to eat your cereal while you watch cartoons?”  
“Yeah!” Maxine shouted. Her eyes didn’t leave the TV.

Billy blinked and brought his eyes in focus – he’d been sort of spacing out, thinking about what was gong to happen sooner rather than later. The television screen swam into focus as Billy squinted at it.  
“What the fuck you watching?” He asked as Susan bustled into the living room with Maxine’s bowl of 'Froot Circles.'

Billy glanced at the single cereal bowl as Susan disappeared again, not sparing Billy a single look. In fact, her eyes nervously skittered away from him. Yeah, she knew it was coming too. Bitch. Billy folded his arms across his chest and sank farther into the couch cushion, listening to Maxine starting to crunch away on her nasty Froot Circles like a heathen, slurping milk.

She talked with her mouth full to reply to Billy’s question. “What’s it look like?”

“No, not the Muppet Babies again, Maxine. You’re too old for that bullshit.” Billy groaned, kicking the leg of the coffee table to help express his displeasure.

Maxine made a big stink face at him – at least she was looking at him again, though he couldn’t tell if he was happy about that or not.  
It was better than her making that scared face again that made his stomach churn. That look she wore that made him feel like he was his dad.

“I happen to like this show. And I was watching it first.” She pointed out.

“Are you five? No. It’s stupid, change it.” He glanced at his watch, judging the time – it was Saturday morning after six so the options were pretty plentiful. “Put it on channel 4. He-Man’s on.” Billy demanded.

Maxine wrinkled her nose at him, but he knew she liked He-man – she liked She-ra, too, but she liked to give him shit about it and act like she didn’t like it just to fuck with him.  
“No way. What about Alvin and the Chipmunks? And you change it if you care so much.”

Billy gave her a look. He thought about a show they could both stand, gears grinding away in his head. She continued gnashing away at her nasty ass generic Froot Circles. The generic kind that came in a bag.  
“Close your mouth, you’re chewing cud like a goddamn cow.” 

Maxine chewed more loudly at him, mouth wide like a gaping fish. He rolled his eyes at the ceiling.  
“Screw you.” She said, spraying milk at him like the heathen she was.

“I fuckin’ swear, Maxine.” Billy snarled, and five months ago, he would have grabbed her wrist hard enough to bruise, and thrown the damn bowl at the wall.

He had to curl his hands into fists in his laps to keep them to himself. He stood abruptly to get away from her, and she sort of flinched back into the couch, the milk in her bowl wavering. He gave her a withering look – he wasn’t gonna do nothin’ – and walked to the TV to change the channel. They didn’t have the fancy new kind with a clicker. He slammed the side of it for a better picture, rocking the box, then started clicking the channel button.

“OH!” Maxine exclaimed, pointing with her spoon at the set. Dripping milk on the carpet. “Wait go back.”

Billy went back a channel.  
“Inspector Gadget? Alright, fine. Shit’s funny.” Billy shrugged, then went back to the couch – sprawling out on it, legs spread wide at the knees. Trying his best not to think about his dad in the back room.

His stomach growled at him – the last thing he ate were Harrington’s stupid saltines just to shut the guy up about it.  
He thought about the cereal in the kitchen – the good kind, not the 'Froot Circles'. Apple Joes were the shit, even if they were the generic brand too, and they blew that fruity nastiness out of the water. Billy liked the cinnamon. But that seemed like too far of a distance to go, and it honestly put him closer to the hallway that led down to his dad. 

Billy tried to concentrate on Gadget and his stupid antics. It was a rerun with the episode about the snakes stealing coin collections, and Penny was yapping on and Billy snorted a little – she was annoying like Maxine. Gadget would be lost without her, though.

Billy finally got up to get himself cereal, taking the risk, but he tread carefully as he went to get a bowl out of the cabinet. Steps silent. Poured his 'Apple Joes' with too much milk, and Susan was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee – poring over a newspaper spread out on the table, and picking at her own bowl of disgusting-ass grape-nuts. The actual brand-name. Only old people ate that cow shit.  
Billy grabbed a mug of coffee too – since it was already brewed. But Jesus, Susan tended to brew it like mud, making Billy gag a little as he walked back to the couch, balancing his cereal on his thigh.

He was half eating his Apple Joes, half throwing them at Maxine’s hair to see how many he could make stick in that rats nest, and to see how many he could throw at her before she exploded.  
It was a good distraction, had him snickering. He could almost forget what was going to happen soon. What happened last night. His splitting headache, and the tired ache in his bones.  
Maxine was getting all flustered and red in the face, it was pure gold. It almost felt like before they’d left California – when things had still been sort-of okay. And maybe he wanted that - to make it better after he’d screamed at her in the car.

“God leave me alone, Billy!” She half shouted, glaring at him, but she didn’t seem that mad as she tried to pull Apple Joes out of her super long red hair..

It just made him laugh, but his chest was too tight, and the laugh didn’t sound quite right. “You’ve uh, you’ve got something in your hair, Maxine.”

“Yeah no shit, asshole!” 

“You kids behave yourselves! Maxy, language!” Susan called from the kitchen.

Billy snorted into his milk again as he slurped it out of the bowl, eyes on the television set. “Yeah _Maxy, language._ ” He mocked in a high voice. 

He drank a little more black sludge coffee. His knee kept jumping as he compulsively tapped his heel on the floor, and yeah, bugging Maxine was a good way to distract himself, and they finished watching Inspector Gadget. But he just felt like he was waiting at the end of a plank on a pirate ship, about to step into open air to plummet through space to certain death below.

The TV changed to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, which they both loved, two empty cereal bowls forgotten on the table with Billy’s empty coffee mug. Billy was leaning back, eyes half lidded as he watched – not that he’d admit he liked it. It was okay, he guessed. It was for kids, but still.  
He was thinking about when they were still in California, when they watched this once, and Maxine had said ‘You’re Raphael. Because you’re such a douchebag,’ and Billy’d replied “oh yeah, then you’re Mikey because you’re such a fuckin’ waistoid goob.”

A long time ago she’d actually started calling him Raph when she was happy with him. Like how he called her Mad Max, because she was a psycho bad ass like the dude from the movies. Billy fucking loved the Mad Max movies. Maybe he’d even called her Mikey a few times, in a way that was almost fond, when she was real dumb. Back when they were on alright terms. Now, they were both quiet watching the show. Now, he just felt sad thinking about it. Billy had his boots on the coffee table. And he was feeling pretty alright for a second.

But it might have been Susan’s loud _‘you kids behave yourselves!’_ , because Billy suddenly heard a door slam deeper in the belly of the small, cramped house. Billy’s stomach plummeted into his boots, and his fingers went icy-hot cold, tingles in his fingertips like pinpricks. His hands curled up in his lap, and he felt his spine begin to curl forward defensively. He dropped his boot soles from the table to the floor, knowing he’d get in more trouble for that shit.

Maxine had gone still beside him, her head jerking around to look over the back of the couch – towards the kitchen. One hand was frozen, half pulling an Apple Joe ring out of her hair, and she just sat there like that. Mouth a little ‘o.’ Billy kept his head facing forward, towards the TV, couldn’t bring himself to look over his shoulder.

Splinter was saying something on the screen, all wise about something like usual, scolding the boys. Billy tried to act nonchalant. Like his heart rate hadn’t just sped up, fluttering in his throat, because the feeling made him angry. So angry. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t. He was just mad. Mad at everything.

Billy’s eyes flinched shut, the sounds from the turtles just white noise in his ears now.

“Nice of you to finally join us, son.” Neil’s low, steady voice came from the archway leading from the kitchen into the living room. Billy’s fingers curled tighter in his lap, like his fingers were trying to burrow into his palms. Blunt nails biting crescents into his skin.

“Yes, sir.” Billy said.

“You look at me when I’m speaking to you.” Neil said in that same steady voice, layered with steel.

Billy’s long, dark lashes finally flickered open as he turned in his seat, hanging one elbow over the back of the sofa as he turned his eyes up to face Neil Hargrove. Like he was trying to be relaxed, even if he felt the opposite.  
The sturdy man was silhouetted against the early morning sunlight filtering in from the kitchen window behind him, with a yellow cast from the faded, lacy curtains Susan had put up to make it feel more homey.

“There a reason you didn’t deem it necessary to come home last night?” Neil asked again. Words like ice.

Billy didn’t flinch.  
“I…got held up at a – friends place.” Billy started.

“Oh really? A _friend?_ ” Neil asked. The word ‘friend’ sounded dangerous.

“A girl. At a girls place.” Billy immediately amended. “I lost track of the time.” He hoped the insinuation that he was fucking the brains out of some chick was in there somewhere. Because that was better than Neil ever knowing he’d been laid up on some rich boy’s couch, even if there hadn’t been any screwing involved.  
That detail wouldn’t have mattered, not to Neil Hargrove, not anymore. Not after California.

Maxine was glancing back and forth between them with her big stupid blue eyes like they were going to bug out of her little red head. She better keep her damn mouth shut about Steve. Billy threw her a warning glance.

Neil’s jaw slowly clenched – Billy could see it in the shadows as his dad stepped forward. 

“We’ll be discussing this later.” His dad said, and there was a promise in those words. He knew Billy was lying through his teeth – how did he always know? Billy was only telling the man what he wanted to hear. He only ever lied to Neil, because he had to.

Billy nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“What was that?”

“Yes, sir.” Billy felt himself shrinking into the couch.

“What the hell are those dishes doing on the coffee table?” Neil snapped.

Billy stood up too fast, the blood rushing out of his head and making him see spots as he gathered up both his and Maxine’s dishes, spoons clattering.

“I don’t want food in the living room. You know that. You know better.” Neil growled as Billy stood there awkwardly balancing the bowls.

Billy grit his teeth. He didn’t know when to keep his damn mouth shut. He wished he did. “Susan was letting Maxine eat her cereal in here, and I – “ He started, as if to explain himself.

“You talking back to me, boy?” Neil cut him off with that deathly serious tone. “You just. Don’t. Do. It. Those are the rules in this house. You don’t make excuses for yourself, either. Or did you forget?” Neil was getting up in Billy’s face now, reaching out, grabbing his face in his hand. His thumb digging into Billy’s cheek, palm bracing his chin. Tilting his head back.

Billy froze as still as a marble statue, both hands gripping the plastic cereal bowls, the mug handle looped around his thumb. His jaw ached with his dad’s grip, where those bony fingers dug into the fleshy parts of his cheek. Maxine was sitting on the couch, her mouth hanging open as she gaped up at them – she seemed to be as frozen as Billy was, her stupid hair all flyaway – still dotted with a few cinnamon bright Apple Joes. Her knees were pulled up to her chest.

“No sir. I’m sorry, sir. I-it won’t happen again.” Billy said, chest too tight, throat too tight, and he could barely get the words out with the way Neil gripped his face. 

His spine had gone rigid straight, chin tilted back as he stared just to the left of Neil’s head. He couldn’t look him in the eyes, not really. Billy was having trouble breathing again. Maybe Neil would lay into him in front of Maxine – maybe he’d been wrong that his dad would keep him waiting for it, driving him mad with the ‘when will it happen? When? When?’

“Go to your room.” Neil ordered, releasing Billy, and jabbing a thumb over his shoulder dismissively.

His eyes were flicking up and down Billy, seeming to study him, and not liking what he saw. Billy wasn’t sure what that look meant. “I’m going to watch the news. Then we’ll talk.”

Susan bustled out of the kitchen at that exact moment, while Billy was sidestepping his pops. Hurrying toward the kitchen to wash out the cereal bowls and mug, breathing too fast, head spinning. His legs felt like they were melting into puddy after Neil had released him.

He was going to really get it later. He could already tell. Neil was pissed and he hadn’t even touched on the real subject he was mad about yet – not with Maxine sitting there. Couldn’t tarnish the pure golden child with that grade A parenting brutality, now could we? Billy felt shaky, like his bones were going to shiver right out of his skin, and that same skin felt too hot and too cold at the same time.

He knew that once he was in his room, removed and alone, all bets were off. So Billy drug his feet, taking his time rinsing the dishes and drying them, placing them back in the cupboard.

He heard Susan talking to Maxine from the living room, talking over the sound of the news.  
“So I was thinking we could leave around nine for the mall. We’ll go get your new Easter dress. How does that sound?”

Billy’s stomach twisted into a knot. Nine o’clock? That was only a few hours away. Billy slunk into his room, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click (normally he’d slam it, but not now), wishing as he had time and time again that he was allowed to have a lock on his door. So he could just lock it, feel safe, at least, in one place in this stupid house from hell.

Once he was in there with a time limit, without the option of leaving, he felt like he was trapped in a cage. Pacing from one side of the tiny room to the other, glancing up at the mirror over his shitty, black ply board dresser, the piece of shit one he found used, for free, in front of someone's house - covered in bottles of cologne, lotion, aquanet hairspray, and gel.

He punched the side of his bookshelf, punched it again, making the wooden shelves rattle, all littered in tapes and records. But not really books, save a few for school, because that made him look like too much of a fag. No son of Neil Hargrove’s was going to read books. Even if he liked them. He liked being transported to another world that wasn’t this one - anything but this one.

Billy twisted on his heel again, pacing like a caged panther longing to be free, shoulders heaving with the pace of his breath and the intensity burrowing in his belly. He paused once in front of his mirror, blinking back at his wide eyed, pale reflection. He was real keyed up, all tense muscles and hard lines. He swallowed, reaching up to run a hand over the soft green cashmere sweater he’d borrowed. It made his blue eyes jump. He’d almost forgotten he was wearing it

He thought of the way Neil had been watching him, studying him like a specimen under a microscope, and Billy had come away from it wanting in some way. Thought of how Neil had known Billy was lying about being with a girl. Billy swallowed hard, watching the rise and fall of his Adams apple in his reflection. And Jesus his hair looked like shit.

Billy jerked away from his visage in the mirror, sitting down heavily on the side of his mattress – held up by a box spring on the floor. He buried his face in his hands, feeling the way they trembled slightly. He hadn’t fucked up this bad in months. He yanked Harrington’s fruity sweater off, wadding it up with furious fists, and threw it in the corner like he’d been burned by it. Leaving it like a green lump of nothingness, not the soft barrier it had been.

He sat there, spine curled forward, breathing hard through his nose. Bare chested, his heart hammering against his ribs like a million miles a minute. This time his hands curled up into his long hair, fingers twining like ties in his curls, and he tightened his grip, and tightened it, and tightened it, until he felt like he might pull his hair from the sockets. His scalp burned where he was pulling at it.

He scuffed his boot soles against the dirty, ragged carpeting like maybe he could ground himself that way. Kicked them off. He felt like he was on the edge of a panic attack, hovering there, because he couldn’t quite catch his breath, and his foot just kept on tapping and he couldn’t make it stop.  
He tucked one arm around his ribs, which were still achy and dark purple in places beneath his forearm. That had only been for forgetting to take out the garbage. What was going to happen now?

The time went by too quickly. Like time didn’t exist at all. Billy heard the front door slam, heard Susan’s little Honda start to putter away ferrying her and Maxine away to go dress shopping. 

Then Billy’s door opened. 

And time still didn’t exist.

Suddenly, Billy found himself on his back on that ratty, nasty ass carpet. His head was half slumped against the wall, his neck aching with the angle like it’d been this way for a while. He was sort of crammed between the dresser and the corner of the room, one leg sprawled out from around the edge of the black plywood. The other bent up at the knee. 

He stirred a little. Had he passed out? His door had been slammed shut with Neil’s departure only minutes ago – or had it been minutes? Hours?  
He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t remember, and the world was slipping around him worse than when he’d been drunk and drugged at that party.

Time wasn’t real and neither was Billy – feeling strangely disconnected from his body.

His lungs were rattling and he didn’t know why. He tried to get up but his body wouldn’t respond right, his legs sliding back out from under him when he tried to move his knees. He tried to remember what had happened, one bright blue eye wheeling around wildly – the other didn’t seem to want to open, the lid feeling puffed up, swollen. Tender.

He remembered bits and pieces only.  
First, he remembered being against the wall, flat backed, trying to shrink and make himself smaller, his throat bared like a sign of submission. Arms at his sides, palms spread against the plaster and paint. Trying not to breathe, not to move. 

Then he remembered hitting his dresser, hearing it crack with his weight, bottles dropping down around his bare feet. He’d stepped on his bottle of cologne and shattered it, and that could account for the fierce, slick pounding he felt from the arch of one of his feet.

And he remembered being thrown against the small closet, and his head had bounced off of the corner of the door before he’d really gone down. He remembered solid fists, and boot toes once he was down for the count.  
He’d never fought back. Ever.

Billy couldn’t help a low, broken whimper that escaped from his chest as he struggled against the wall, trying to slide up against it, grabbing at the white blinds over his window, snagging his fingers into the slats for some kind of support. His right shoulder was pulsing and surely on fire, and that arm wouldn’t really respond. It took Billy a long moment to place the fact that it was dislocated – standing out at an odd angle from his collar bone, sitting too low.

Something fierce and panicked was crawling its way up his windpipe as he hung himself up there from the blinds, only half sitting up, weird little shudder gasps leaving his mouth as he pressed the side of his face against the cool side of the dresser. Panting foggy breaths over the black, shiny surface, smearing thick blood there.

His head was spinning and he didn’t know what was hurt.  
He just needed to be left alone. Just to be alone. Then he’d be okay. He’d be okay. He was always okay.

The bits and pieces were still coming back to him, a little at a time. He thought of how Neil had yelled about Billy daring to lie to him. How it was disrespectful to not come home. That Maxine was his responsibility. Even how Billy had been blaring the music early in the morning, he’d known he’d get it for that. Then of course, how Billy had been wearing a shirt that didn’t belong to him – and it was a man’s sweater. Too rich for Billy to afford. Billy didn’t own anything like that.

He remembered Neil finding it in the corner, right before he’d slammed Billy into the closet door. He’d torn it in two with his fists. Like it was nothing.  
Something like a sob broke through Billy’s chest at the memory.  
Shit. Shit. That’s right. Shit. He felt sick. He felt so sick, bile in the back of his throat, mixing with the taste of copper blood. Neil had known. Seen right through him, like always.

He hurt everywhere but he also felt numb, and the rattle in his lungs reminded him of having a cold. A shudder went through Billy at the thought, and he was maybe crying, because his mom had always taken care of him when he was sick. But she wasn’t here anymore. He was alone.  
And Jesus, it just made him angrier, and he couldn’t get up, and fuck this. Fuck all of it. He wanted to go into a black out rage but he couldn’t even move.

The world was fading in and out around him, and everything was dark, and he could only hold onto the blinds like a lifeline. It took him a long time to realize that it was actually dark, like really dark. Night dark. There wasn’t any sunlight coming in from the window anymore. His room was the deep blue black of nighttime.

He tried to think of what time it might be, because he couldn’t look at his watch – didn’t Susan and Neil have a date night tonight? They usually did on Saturdays. He was supposed to babysit the little shitbird tonight.

It was at least a relief that Neil was gone…he didn’t want to have a round 2. He didn’t know if he’d survive it. Because even now, he was barely here. Billy didn’t know how long he sat there, slumped against the dresser, fingers tangled in blinds to keep himself up, fading in and out of conciseness, but it must have been a long time if it was already dark. Something wet on his neck, down his back.

Soon, he heard a soft knock at the door. It came again when Billy didn’t reply, looking at it through the haze of the darkness with the only eye that would open. Breathing hard when he thought it might be Neil. But Neil didn’t knock. When the door cracked open, the line of light that came through the tiny opening was almost blinding.

Billy winced at the light and moaned into the dresser, tasting copper on his tongue - still slumped against the cheap lacquered wood.

One startled, ocean blue eye peered through the crack, with a shock of red hair and a soft gasp. Then Maxine was in front of him, bent down, and the overhead light was on and it was too bright, too bright. Billy made a weird snuffling noise as he tried to talk to her but his mouth wasn’t working right either, and it half confused him, half pissed him off. His dry tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth with glue.

Maxine was wearing a pretty dress. And something was shiny on the girl’s cheeks, so when she leaned down over him to try and pull him up, she got that wet shit all over his face. Billy grunted. She was talking to him, saying something, but it was all gibberish – like he was underwater, or had cotton in his ears.

She was tugging at him, talking at him, trying to pull him up, but she was so small, and her fingers just slid across the blood on his bare shoulders.  
The only words he seemed to catch were ‘Billy,’ ‘oh shit, shit’ and ‘I’m going to take care of you, okay? Okay? Okay. I’m gonna get help, I’ll get help. Billy?!’ She sounded all frantic, almost hysteric.

Billy finally managed to make his tongue work well enough to fiercely growl at her around bloodied teeth, no hospital. Not the hospital, he said. No cops. No cops. Anything but that. Just leave him here. Leave him here. He’d be fine. He’d be fine.


	6. You can't die. Please don't die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> March 30th, 1985

The long walk across Hawkins was a lonely one. The wet, heavy morning air settled on top of Steve and didn't let up, with an icy moisture that settled in his bones and wouldn't leave. Despite his jacket, he was chilled, hunched over as he walked, and he just wanted to be home. He was always cold, he just ran that way, and this fog made it worse. The walk took forever, it wasn't some leisurely stroll.

But Hawkins wasn't really that big, so Steve supposed it could have been worse. He wished it hadn't been foggy though, even if it was common this time of year, and he was used to this miserable kind of spring weather. He liked to take walks to clear his head, even through the woods, like he could feel more alive there. Like he was looking for something he had forgotten. But never through the dense ivory fog, 'cause it could hide too much.

As he walked familiar paths, red strike Nike's slapping against the wet asphalt, he couldn't help but feel a little spooked. It was just fog. Just weather. It was moisture trapped in the air, his brain told him, like a cloud fallen to earth. He was walking in a cloud. But it didn't feel like that. It felt oppressive. He could feel the damp where his skin was exposed, where he wasn't huddled down in his gray Members Only jacket, zipped up to his throat and burrowed into the flipped up bomber collar.

The mist was quiet. Too quiet, really, like it was actively canceling out all sounds from the surrounding forest. And it was eerie, because he could see the forest on either side, the trees looming up like these great shadow sentinels around him, and he didn’t know if they were on his side or not.

Steve shoved his hands deeper in his pockets, and walked faster, slap slap slap went his sneakers.  
He was drowsy yet over alert with the white pressing in around him, because he’d done so much walking tonight. He was fed up with it, and he fully planned on passing out when he got back. His legs were buzzing and sore from the over exertion. Maybe he was tired enough to not dream, finally.

He couldn’t even hear the rustle of animals around him, and it made him feel anxious, anxious and a little twitchy – like he was seeing movement out of the corner of one eye, off in the hazy mist of forest, but when he turned to look, stopping dead, there was nothing there.

His fingers curled into fists in his pockets, wishing he had something with him, like his bat – something to curl his hands around and get a good, solid grip, wood gritting into his palms. Making him feel safe. But nothing happened. Nothing appeared from the haze. He was seeing shadows that weren’t real, he knew, figments of an overactive imagination. Memories of a time past.

He got home safely, even if it hadn’t felt like he would while he was hurrying over asphalt and eventual sidewalks, passing by homes shrouded in a blanket of fog. The entier walk had been an endless, gaping forest with a maw of trees followed by haunted neighborhoods.

And it was strange because he grew up here – he knew these streets, he knew the woods, better than he knew any other place. But it felt like a different planet in that fog, making him jump, making it hard to breathe, making him see ghosts of plant-like dogs and bipedal creatures with reaching, clawed arms – no faces.  
No, not another planet, he thought sullenly. Like another dimension.

Once he was finally in his big empty house, slamming and locking the door behind him, Steve leaned against the door, like his body could prevent any of the fog from getting in. He tried to slow his breathing, his heart, peeling open those dark eyes to the bright interior of his home – all of the lights on.

He slid down to the floor, sitting like that for a minute, just sort of curled with his weight against the door before he finally started to tug off his sneakers. He threw them against the wall, then looked at them dully for a bit. He’d thrown Billy’s boots against the same spot only earlier that night – or was it that morning? – alongside his soiled black ones that he’d probably just throw away. They weren’t really his favorites anyway.

When Steve finally staggered to his feet, feeling sort of weak after the uncalled for adrenaline rush during the brisk morning walk, he wandered over to the perfect, bright white couch, like a beacon in the belly of the huge living room.

He slumped down onto the cushions, shifting a little as he stuffed his face into one of the throw pillows his mom liked, bundling up into the afghan he usually slept with. It took a second for his brain to register that the pillow smelled different. It smelled like a specific, entrancing cologne he didn’t know the name of, with Marlboro cigarette smoke, and maybe a little bit like saltines - all of it mixed with something that was just Billy Hargrove – a little musky and earthy like summer, warm like the heat from asphalt, and sweet like coconut scented sunscreen.

Steve blinked, pulling his face back from the pillow as he stared it down like it was a stranger, not the same pillow he’d been drooling on all week in his sleep. Like it had betrayed him. Billy’d been sprawled out here when Steve’d gotten back in the Camaro earlier, his head on the same pillow. Those cornflower blue eyes alive and bright when Steve walked in. Waiting.  
Steve sighed at the pillow.

He got up, and put a VHS in the VCR, pressed play so the little white triangle flashed on the blue screen of the huge TV. Then Steve fell asleep to Risky Business playing in the background, curled up around the throw pillow, hugging it to his chest, wrapped up in the afghan like a Steve burrito.  
It was the first time he’d really slept in days, the kind of deep slumber where you didn’t move, didn’t stir, didn’t dream. The scent of cologne and coconut musk followed him through his empty sleep.

The phone ringing jostled Steve out of the darkness of his eyelids – he didn’t actually remember falling asleep. He thought he had only just closed his eyes, snorting when he sat up suddenly, disoriented and throwing the pillow he’d been cuddling with at some imagined villain. Slowly, he realized it was night outside the tightly-closed blinds of the sliding glass doors, and beyond the big bay windows. It was pitch dark beyond the halo of light Steve’s house created. The TV had gone back to a blue screen, the movie automatically rewound. How was it nighttime already? How long had he been sleeping for?

He rotated his head around, cracking his neck, still half asleep. Those half lidded, dark chocolate eyes roamed the brightly-lit living space absently before he rubbed them. What had woken him up? Then the phone rattled in its cradle again from the wall, ringing all shrill like a reminder. Steve staggered up, kicking the afghan away from where it was tangled around his legs – half tripping – before he made it to the wall.  
He snatched up the phone as it started to trill again, rubbing a hand tiredly over his face. Had he forgotten to pick someone up or something?

“’lo?” He mumbled into the receiver, trying to get the sleep out of his eyes with the other hand.

“Steve?” Came a young voice from the other end. Max’s voice.

Steve squinted into the over-bright lights of the kitchen as he leaned against the entryway. “Uhm, yeah. What’s up, Max?”

“I tried radioing you, but, but you didn’t answer.” Max rushed out.

Steve straightened a little from his slouch, just beginning to hear the way Max sounded – like her voice was strung out too taut. Like something was wrong. 

“I was asleep. ’s something the matter?” He asked, instantly more awake.

There wasn’t a reply, just some scuffling sounds in the background.

“Hey, Max?”

More sounds, then heavy breathing. Steve started to wrap the curly phone cord around his wrist anxiously. Max came back.

“It’s uh, it’s Billy. Billy needs help.”

Again? Steve blinked, running his free hand through his sleep mussed brunette hair to make it stand on end. He repeated the gesture.

“What? Is he, is he still messed up from earlier?” But that had been hours ago, and Billy hadn’t even seemed buzzed anymore when Steve’d dropped them off. He couldn’t possibly still be sick, could he? There was no answer.  
“Is he sick?” Steve asked, unsure why his voice sounded so urgent – it was just Billy, right?

But Steve…Steve didn’t know. He felt a little weird about it since last night. He thought of the way Billy had asked if Steve wanted him. And the way that Billy had been acting, that was different too. Because once Steve had actually gotten Billy to his ‘mansion’, inviting him in, letting him crash on his couch (as temporary as it may have been)… Well, Billy had been behaving…fuck, Steve didn’t know.

It had felt like shooting the shit with a friend, almost. Almost.

Even if there was a little more making-fun-of-Steve involved in it, and Steve having throw up on his shoes by the front door, and trying to get the guy sober.  
He wasn’t sure, maybe that’s just how Billy got when he was wasted, although he normally hated Steve. _HATED_ him. Maybe it even could have felt friendly under different circumstances.

Then really, once they had been in the car and driving back to Billy’s house, the other guy had almost been back to his old self. Full of venom and fire and fury and clearly not fond enough of Steve to be jovially tearing apart his taste in music. It had been back to screaming at him about it instead. 

It’d been almost like two different people, from Steve’s house, to the ride back to Billy’s. And Christ, Steve didn’t know…it sounded like Max had thought Billy would get in trouble for not going home that previous night, which had sent a jolt of guilt through Steve’s gut, like maybe he should have tried harder to get Billy where he needed to be instead of taking him to Steve’s house instead.  
It had just seemed like the best option at the time.

What was he supposed to have done, try to shove an unconscious Billy through his bedroom window? Steve didn’t even know which room was his, let alone if he could bodily lift the dead weight of one Billy Hargrove.

And then Steve thought about how Max had been saying something about how, how someone might _DO_ something if Billy didn’t quit what he was doing. It had felt like a threat looming in the car. Steve couldn’t place it. He hadn’t understood. He’d tried asking if Billy was okay, but…had something really happened?

“Max! Hey? What happened? ” Steve snapped his fingers in the air like that could get her attention across the telephone wire. 

Most of the cord was around his wrist now, like a twisted white shackle. There were still sounds in the background, and he thought he could hear Billy saying something angry to her, but it was garbled.  
There was a sound like knocking furniture, and like something dragging.  
He couldn’t make out the words, until he thought he heard Max say, “You can’t die.” She huffed out a breath. “Please don’t die, asshole.” But it was muffled, like she had the phone pressed between her ear and cheek and was using her hands for something else. 

A male voice in the background growled ‘I’m not fuckin’ dying, stupid.’ But the voice didn’t sound very sure.

“Wh-What? _WHAT?!_ ” Steve yelled into the receiver, gripping the phone so hard with both hands felt like it might break in his grasp. The plastic creaked. “HEY MAX! Dying?! WHO’S DYING?!” He yelled, feeling like he was coming a part a little.

“Just, just, can you come and get us?” Max finally asked into the phone, sounding a little out of breath and panicky.

“Yeah. Yeah okay. I’ll be right there. Hold tight.” Steve said in a heartbeat. He hung up the phone, slamming it into its cradle, making it shake. Unwound his wrist.

He shoved his socked feet back into his sneakers and threw his jacket back on before he was out the door. He didn’t think of how his teeth felt a little fuzzy, unaware of his morning breath, or the fact that he hadn’t actually changed out of his clothes he’d been walking to hell and back in earlier.  
He didn’t have the time for cosmetic niceties, besides maybe shoving a hand through his hair a few times to get it out of his face. He peeled out in his BMW to cross town – again – toward the lower class end of Hawkins. The roller coaster with Billy Hargrove this weekend was never ending, and Steve wondered how he’d landed himself on this ride in the first place.

—-

Steve’s initial worry about lifting the dead weight of Billy Hargrove had not been that far off. Because that was a pretty accurate assessment – dead weight. Especially when Billy didn’t _WANT_ his help. When Steve’d first walked in through the living room, before he actually saw Billy, he was muttering to himself ‘I don’t understand! How do you get yourself into two shitty situations back to back in twenty four hours? What kinda bad luck IS that? What the fuck happened?’ He’d been gesturing wildly with his hands before he turned the corner of the kitchen.

Then his eyes landed on Billy.  
The teen had grimaced up at him and spit thick blood at his feet on the faded, yellowing, geometric kitchen linoleum from the seventies.

“Fell down the stairs. And m’luck is fine, thanks.” Billy grunted out, head wavering on his shoulders like a bobble head. Max was quiet.

Steve stared at him, frozen for a second.

Max had somehow gotten him into the kitchen, she said - from where? From downstairs? - and now Billy was slumped against the cabinets. He was bare chested under the poor fluorescent light, wearing only his tight denim jeans, legs spread out in front of him. He was grinning with sharp, bloody teeth all wild up at Steve, with blazing blue eyes that looked fever-sick.  
He stank of the cologne Steve’d breathed in from his throw pillow, but like he’d had a whole bottle dumped on him – literally – and a gash in his foot was bleeding steadily all over the yellow and orange seventies pattern vinyl.

“FINE?! HOW IS THIS FINE?!” Steve half shouted, waving at Billy.

Max had let Steve in, and now she stood at Billy’s side, breathing hard from trying to get him into the kitchen, Steve supposed. And he could just stare for a second at the bright blood smeared over Billy’s bare chest and shoulders, highlighting his muscles redredred, too red and dark. Little hand prints of it - Max's hand prints. Billy's right shoulder was jutting out at an awkward, too-low angle from Billy’s collarbone in a way that made Steve’s stomach flip all funny in his guts.  
And that muscled torso was blossoming with angry purple black bruises, more than when Steve last saw him.

Steve dropped to his knees by Billy, feeling like déjà vu – it was like kneeling by Billy on violent pink linoleum instead, holding his hair back with delicate fingers only hours ago. Steve was thankful he’d had enough sleep to deal with this now.

“You fell down the stairs? Seriously?” Steve asked, not really believing him for some reason, and his hands immediately reaching out for Billy’s head – but he tried to go slower when he saw how Billy flinched back against the cabinet door at the movement. Making the door shiver in its frame. Steve expected one of his signature _‘Don’t fuckin’ touch me’s,’_ but it never came.

Billy seemed to be having trouble keeping him in focus, let alone snapping at him, head rather lolling like a doll’s. He didn’t seem to have the energy or attention for it.  
So Steve made certain his gestures were slow and obvious as he carefully reached for Billy’s head, tilting it, searching for the source of the blood. Fingertips searching through the matted curls. Shockingly, Billy didn’t pull away from his touch. Didn’t even try.

“What do we do? What do I do? Steve?!” Max asked, standing there with her fists clenched at her sides in a pretty dress with forest green flowers, the crisp fabric all smeared in bright crimson splotches like Christmas.

First Steve felt panicky as fuck as he looked between the two, his hands searching until he found a shallow gash in the back of Billy’s skull – right above his neck, like it’d smacked something sharp. The corner of a step, Steve figured, if he’d really fallen down stairs.  
“Shit shit shit, I don’t, I - ” Steve said, grabbing at his hair with a bloody hand, feeling a wave building in his breast. 

Billy gave him a look like he was an idiot. Then Steve had to stop and suck in a sharp breath – because he could sense the panic fanning out from the other two in the air, taste it on his tongue.

He needed to be the fucking calm one in this situation. At that realization, Steve felt himself settle into a different state of mind – a frame of thought that was controlled, that was calm, that knew what to do. That never panicked. The same part of him that took control when he was about to slam the shit out of some demo-dogs with a bat, cool and calculated.  
The part of his brain that took all of the control into itself, and absorbed any uncertainty.

He looked calmly up at Max with serious brown eyes, his muscles working in his throat and jaw as he tried to contain himself.  
“Okay. Alright. Okay. Max, it’s alright. It’s fine.” Steve said as coolly as he could, then, in a more commanding tone - “Grab two dish towels for me, okay? And anything frozen from the freezer, like a bag of vegetables, rubbing alcohol or – or peroxide? And some duct tape, or that medical tape stuff if you have some. And uh. Bandaids. Okay? Good job, kid.”

Max was nodding all vigorous, red hair flopping around her shoulders, her little fingers trembling as she turned around – fixing onto her task like a terrier latching onto someone’s ankles. She started busying herself around the kitchen and bathroom gathering the short list of items.  
Steve turned back to Billy, whose pale blue eyes were drifting aimlessly – Steve thought he might have a concussion. Did they even have a basement? They must. But something about it rang false. 

Steve’s fingers came forward to briefly run over the awkward angle of Billy’s right shoulder, trying to judge what was wrong with it – if it was broken, or just dislocated. It was hanging too low. That meant dislocated, right? When he touched it, Billy went as white as a sheet, his head knocking back against the cabinet, spattering more blood on the wood – the back of his dark golden locks already matted and dark with it. He hissed all heavy through gritted teeth, shying away from Steve’s touch. The cut seemed shallow, but head wounds bled a lot.

It was weird, because the gashes on his foot and head looked half clotted…like they’d happened a while ago. Not just now. The blood flow more sluggish.

“It’s okay. It’ll be okay.” Steve said.

“Harrington.” Billy spit out more blood with the word, like he’d bitten his tongue knocking his head back.

Once Max had dumped the supplies at Billy’s side, Steve worked quickly. He pressed one clean dish towel against the pad of Billy’s foot after dumping rubbing alcohol over it – trying to hold Billy’s ankle still as the other guy jerked, hissing in air through his teeth before holding his breath, and it was somehow worse when he wasn’t making any sound.

Steve wrapped the cloth in place with a strip of duct tape he broke off with his teeth – he repeated this with Billy’s head, nearly getting slugged for his effort, but without the tape – he had Max hold the dish towel in place instead, guiding her hand to keep it steady. 

“Keep pressure on it, okay?” Steve asked. “You’re doing great, Max.”

She just nodded, biting her lower lip hard enough to leave marks with a determined look as she kept the towel pressed firmly behind Billy’s head. Steve pressed a few bright green - Ninja Turtles? - band-aids onto some of Billy’s worst scratches for good measure.

“I’m…fine.” Billy grunted, trying to get away from Max’s bunched up towel stifling the blood flow, and Steve getting band-aid happy.  
“I don’t need any…help. I’m not some…bitch ass pussy.” He tried to twist away like a slithering snake, and he seemed to be breathing too fast, like he couldn’t catch his breath. Eyes skittering, looking for a place to land. His good foot kept on bouncing on the kitchen floor, like maybe he couldn’t control it.

“Woah, here.” Steve gently guided him back by his good shoulder. 

He grabbed the huge pack of iced broccoli and tried to press it against the bad one. Billy’s entire body convulsed, eyes rolling up with a choked sound, before he knocked his head forward and slammed his forehead right into Steve’s face, slamming skull into nose with a crack.  
Steve staggered back, landing on his ass.

“I – SAID – I’M - FINE. SHIT.” Billy rocked back against the cabinets, the cheap wood creaking like a warning that they weren’t built for this pressure.

Steve winced and stared at him through burning eyes, reaching up to touch his nose – it was gushing, a red hot stream down over his mouth, dripping off his chin. Pooling in the line of grimacing lips, smarting in the cracks from the cold weather.

“You’re not FINE you moron! Are you kidding me?” Steve wiped at his own blood with the back of his hand, smearing it garishly over his face, before he was back in Billy’s space. 

He shouldn’t get too close, too personal, because Billy was just lashing out, he was hurt. Steve knew that rationally. But shit he felt his hackles go up at Billy headbutting him. It felt too familiar. It was why he’d been avoiding Billy for months, only to be thrown into…whatever this fucked up circus of a weekend was. But either way, he didn’t want to freak Billy out more. Steve fought to cool his tone, even with his nose pounding along with his heartbeat in the center of his face. Licking blood from his lips. He held up his hands in a defenseless position.

“I need to get you to a hospital, man. I don’t know how to put your shoulder back without hurting you worse. It needs ice.”

He knew he’d remembered hearing that you were supposed to ice it to reduce the swelling before it was put back in place, if you couldn’t get medical attention right away. Dustin and Lucas had been arguing about it during a D&D campaign when it came up that one of their characters had some dislocated limb. _'You have to ICE it, idiot!" "WE DON'T HAVE ANY ICE, there's no such thing as freezers yet! Stupid!'_ So at least he knew that much. The things you could learn from a stupid game.

Steve tried to pick up the ice pack again, to settle it on Billy’s shoulder, but Billy clearly couldn’t stand for it to be touched; he bucked against the cabinet and slammed his good foot into Steve’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Successfully pushing him away.

Steve was on his ass again, arm wrapped around his ribs, wheezing as he tried to suck in air and failing, and fuck it hurt - couldn’t breathe. So he sat there for a second, fighting for air. Glaring at Billy with black eyes. And Billy was glaring right back at him , those twin pools of electric blue daring him to try and get closer.

“Just you fuckin’ try it again, _King Steve._ ” He hissed all low, unfocused eyes wild, too-red tongue flicking out of his mouth in a challenge.

Max was struggling to keep the towel behind his head.

“I’m trying to HELP YOU. Can you not be a dick for ten seconds?! DAMMIT!” Steve coughed when he could finally get air back into his lungs, and it burned, and he was losing his damn cool. “Just cut it the fuck out! Okay?!”

“Don’t _TOUCH_ it, don’t touch it.” Billy wiggled away, whining almost like an overgrown child when Steve moved toward him, but he was also looking cornered and dangerous. It didn’t bode well.

“Don't be a baby! Ugh, okay. Fine. Fine. Forget the ice.” Steve dropped the broccoli pack on the bloody floor with a ‘slap’. “Let’s get you out of here. I won’t touch it, okay? Christ.”  
He tried to soften his voice. Tried to lure Billy up and out of his defensive position. He didn’t want to get hit again, dammit, and he was just freaking Billy out more.

“No. No hospital.” Billy wheezed, his usual low, sultry tone sounding kind of rattly. Like he had liquid in his lungs, like when you had a cold with mucus in your throat.

“What do you mean? Of course you need to go to the goddamn hospital.” Steve gestured at him like he was insane. “Look at you!”

“ _NO. HOSPITAL_.” Billy ground out each syllable. “And no cops, you hear me, Harrington? Don’t you call that pig you’re so buddy buddy with.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Why would I call the cops? You need a doctor, not the police. What are they gonna do? Arrest the stairs?”

“Just don’t do it.”

“I won’t! Okay! God!” Steve threw his hands above his head, fingers spread wide. “Then what do you want me to do?!” Now his arms spread out wide in a question, still sprawled out on his ass, bleeding from his nose, with a bruise forming at the bridge.

“Leave me alone. I had it handled before Maxine showed up. Jesus, why do I need t’deal with you idiots? Huh? You two understand English?”

“Oh you did not have anything handled! Let Steve help you! Stop being such a stubborn douchebag!” Max, who’d been mostly quiet, suddenly piped up. She was working to keep the towel behind Billy’s head, and he wasn’t making it easy for her. She was pretty engrossed in her job.

Billy jabbed a finger up at her accusingly. “I told you not to call Harrington. I _TOLD_ you, Maxine. This ain’t his goddamn business! I ain’t his problem! And I can’t be gone, I need to be here when my old man gets home.” He snarled at her, but his tone lacked his usual fire. He just sounded…defeated.

“Oh yeah, like HE’D help you?” Max flared up.

Steve didn’t know why Billy didn’t want the hospital. Maybe it was a money thing. “Man, you’re not - it’s not a problem. Look, with the hospital, if it’s money, I can help pay – “ Steve started, but Billy cut him off real quick.

The look he threw at Steve was ablaze, full of offense and furious flames, red rimmed eyes bright with aggression. “I don’t need your _money._ ” He sneered, biting out the word ‘money’ like a curse, spraying red spittle in Steve’s face. “I’d rather die right here, Harrington.”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing hard, willing himself patience. He was starting to lose that calm collected side of himself in the face of Hargrove. Was he really surprised?

“Je-sus. Nobody’s dying. Okay? Okay. I have a different idea. But you need to get up okay? I promise. No hospital. No cops.” It was funny how the word ‘promise’ seemed to hold more weight lately, at least for him and his stupid shithead kids. He hoped Billy understood Steve was serious.

Billy stared at him for a long time, like he was measuring him, hunting for a lie on his face. Weighing the words ‘promise’ and ‘Steve’ on scales like the blindfolded Justice. 

“C’mon. Just trust me.” Steve held out a hand for Billy, like Billy had done when Steve was on his back on the basketball court. But Steve wouldn’t let Billy fall. He’s trying to diffuse the boy like a bomb. Trust me.

Billy seemed to come to a decision, his brain ticking away , watching Steve through those long, dark lashes like a veil over his thoughts. He gave a minute nod of his head, before he immediately closed his eyes against an apparent wave of dizziness. Silently, he grasped Steve’s hand, that big palm dry, fingers slick with red. Steve wrapped his long digits tight, and started to help pull Billy up.

Between Steve and Max, they were finally able to get Billy up off of the kitchen floor, supporting him on either side. All the way out the front door and to the back door of the Beamer, before Steve had him laid out on his left side in the back seat – he couldn’t seem to sit upright in the seat, and this kept his shoulder up in the air. But Max didn’t get in, lingering in the driveway. Steve had grabbed Max and Billy’s jackets from the coat rack - he put Billy’s over him in the seat like a blanket, and tossed Max’s green one to her. It was cold out.

Steve glanced at her. “Get in, Max,” He gestured towards the passenger side with a tilt of his head, but she shook hers no.

“No…no I can’t go.” She said. 

Steve stared at her, drumming his fingers on the roof of the car with impatience and nerves, feeling rushed to get Billy’s shoulder and head wound properly treated. At least as properly as he could figure out how.

“What do you mean you can’t go? We don't have time for this.”

“I need to stay here. To clean up the – the mess.” She half waved at the house in its entirety. All of the blood smears, the bag of discarded broccoli, and whatever else. “It needs to be clean by the time my mom and…Neil, get home.” She explained, twisting her hands behind her back, watching Billy through the rear car window. “Or he’ll be in more trouble.”

“What, for _bleeding?_ That’s not his fault?” Steve scoffed in disbelief. 

Max shrugged. He thought of the way Max had said it was _ALWAYS_ Billy’s fault when they were in the car. Steve’s mouth thinned into a straight line that brooked no argument. He was thinking about Billy saying he ‘fell down the stairs.’ 

“Look, you shouldn’t be here alone. Was Billy supposed to be watching you?” He was shaking his head as he asked.

“I’m old enough! I don’t need a babysitter!. Just get Billy home by midnight, okay? They stay out late. I’ll be fine, okay? Make sure he’s alright.”

“This, this is crazy. _CRAZY._ No.” He muttered to himself. “Get in the car. I can’t leave you by yourself cleaning up BLOOD. No way. I’ll have you both back by midnight, clock strikes twelve or whatever. But I mean, wouldn’t they understand - ? That - ? Okay, you know what, nevermind. Nevermind. They’ll never know you were gone, and I’ll help you clean.”

She still seemed to be fighting it. Steve tried using a different card he had up his sleeve. One he knew would work to entice her. 

“We’re going to Joyce Byers’ house. You can see Will.”

Max finally gave in at that, crawling into the passenger side of the car.

Billy was dead quiet in the back of the car, even as it shuddered to life, rocking him. Like he didn’t want to make any sounds. The rear lights of the BMW glowed like eyes as Steve backed out of the shoddy driveway, pulling away into the night. Steve muttering away to himself under his breath, stuffing tissues from the glove-box into his nostrils like big white twisty ties.


	7. You did what?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> March 30th, 1985

Billy Hargrove wasn't a liar. It was something he prided himself on, and lies tended to ring false on his tongue. Well, unless he was covering his ass against Neil, like lying about spending the night with a girl. But when Neil Hargrove burned the line _you fell down the stairs. again._ into your mind before he shut that door, leaving Billy on the floor, well, you remembered it. So the lie sat on his tongue, heavy and false and wrong, but he wouldn't say much else.

Honestly, he wouldnt go far with telling people about what Neil might do behind closed doors, and he knew that. People didn't care. Sure, they might act like they did initially. But Neil was Billy's father. His flesh and blood biological piece of shit dad, a respected member of the community, even if they were new transplants in Bumfuck Nowhereland, Indiana.

People already liked Neil, said what a good man he was, how upstanding he was. He was a war hero from Vietnam, for crying out loud. Defended the country, fought for America, all that jazz. He had a kind face, they said, kept a straight back and a clean nose and took care of his family and what else could any kid want than that in a parent?

It was only discipline. Neil was teaching him manners. Teaching him respect. Responsibility. How to be a good man.

And Billy was a mouthy little shit, didn’t know when to keep his goddamn mouth shut, and people knew that too. Billy’s hair was a little too long, his music tastes a little too loud, he drove his car a little too fast, his face a little too angry.

People would see, they would know, they would understand why Neil needed to keep him on a tight leash. People’s parents smacked them around all the time. A pig could stand there on the street and watch it happen and not give a damn – it was the parent’s God given right how they disciplined their kid.

But that didn’t change the fact that Neil Hargrove said ‘stairs’ like he’d say ‘jump’ and Billy would have to ask how high, rather than face his old man’s huge class ring in his face again. And when he told that lie to Harrington? Maxine didn’t dispute it. Even if she knew. She was smartening up, anyways – learning when to shut up, like Billy couldn’t.

And maybe it was easier to lie to Harrington because he hated that guy, didn’t want him in his business. Didn’t want to be his problem. And hell, didn’t want him here, seeing him like this. It was almost hilarious that Harrington had tried to throw money at the problem to make it go away, it was just so typical.

But when Billy was standing just inside of the entryway to that creep Byers house for the second time in his life, with that lie on his tongue, it felt a little different. Saying it was different. Because he…he couldn’t quite describe it, but he felt seen by her, by a woman he’d never met, and had had no desire of meeting – she who spawned that freak show dubbed Jonathan Byers.

She…wasn’t what Billy had expected. And he’d fought against going into this house, because Harrington had to be kidding him if this had been his all powerful solution, but at least he’d kept his promise about no hospital and no cops. Asking him to ‘trust him’ like some simpering little bitch – and hell, Billy didn’t know why he’d taken that hand.

He supposed he’d just been tired. So fucking tired, despite the fact he’d apparently been blacked out all day, but being unconscious was different than actually sleeping. And his shoulder was on fire, with alarming tingles shooting down from the ball joint through his elbow and tendons, fingers alight with pinpricks – but the shooting pains were slowly subsiding, and that seemed worse. It was going numb.

So Billy’d take what he could get. He didn’t think he could snap it back in place himself, and Harrington was too much of a pussy to try, and he wouldn’t ask it of Maxine. She didn’t know what she was doing, either.

So here he was, in front of a woman several heads shorter than him, staring up and through him like he was made of cellophane – like that song from Chicago. Mr. Cellophane. His mom had liked musicals, had tapes and records of Broadway, played them in the car, or at home, as often as she played Fleetwood Mac and Madonna. So he remembered that song, and this Byers woman looking at him made it instantly come to mind. Billy glared down at her sourly, trying to drive away that exposed feeling, because he didn’t fuckin’ like it, but those dark brown eyes – a little like Harrington’s – were burning into his soul or something.

“Steve! Max? What on earth happened?” The Byers woman asked, glancing between Billy and Harrington and Maxine, shutting the door behind them. 

Harrington and Maxine were offering him support on either side, even though he kept trying to shake them off, the vultures. But they were apparently letting him do the explaining. 

“Uh. I, fell down. The stairs.” Billy said. The lie falling flat. Squinting down at her, trying to figure out that look she was giving him.

“You did what?!” The woman raised a hand to her cheek, staring up at him. Into him.

Billy shrugged and looked at the wall, working his jaw, not looking into those big damn doe eyes. Too much like Harrington’s, he decided. Honestly she looked more like Harrington than her own damn kids did. Weird. And those eyes were looking at him like she didn’t quite believe him. Just like Harrington had.  
Like they could hear the lie from a boy that never lied.  
But she was asking him what happened like she was giving him the benefit of the doubt anyways.

“I’m sorry it’s dinner time, Ms. Byers.” Harrington scuffled his sneakers on the entry mat.

“No no, Steve I’m so glad you brought him. You know you can come here any time. But I mean, doesn’t he need to go to the hospital?”

“He didn’t wanna go. I wasn’t sure where to take him.”

"I'm right here." Billy snapped, and Steve nudged him gently in the side.

The short, dark haired woman pursed her lips thoughtfully, and shooed Maxine away. “Max honey, why don’t you go find Will in the kitchen? He’ll be thrilled you’re here, Jonathan’s at work.”

“Thanks Ms. Byers,” Maxine mumbled, glancing up at Billy like she wasn’t sure about leaving his side or some stupid shit like that.  
He jerked his chin at her for her to get out of his sight. She went.

Harrington was still at his side, an arm uncomfortably wrapped around Billy’s waist, hot like a brand against bare skin and blood. His other hand was holding one of Susan’s dishtowels against the back of Billy's head, and he wouldn’t move even when Billy tried to shake him off. He was attached to him like some demented koala, and Billy was regretting his life at this point.

He glanced at Harrington, the world tipping a little around him, and scowled heavily when he caught sight of the stupid tissues stuffed up Harrington’s nose – he was such a moron – but the sight made a hot twist of guilt ride it’s way through his guts like a speed train. 

He hadn’t meant to headbutt Harrington – again - or, well, kick him in the stomach...but right after Neil really gave him a good talking to, Billy felt extra volatile. Not attached to his skin, and never, never quite in control. Especially being touched, that was a no-go zone. Like all of his desire to fight back, defend himself, drained out of his body when he was flat against a wall, but it reared back up the minute anyone else approached him in the aftermath. Heady and ready for a fight he could win.

It reminded him a little of when he’d stood in almost this exact same spot, just a few steps farther into the house. ‘cause yeah, this was where it had happened, too. Back then, Billy had still felt the bookshelves digging into his back, the way his old man’s fingers dug into his face, the way he’d been knocked back, shoulders aching. The word ‘faggot’ in his ears.

Then Harrington’d gone and _LIED_ about his sister (step-sister) being in a house full of weird boys on the edge of town in the dead of night, where she wasn’t supposed to be. He’d been trying to save Maxine from her own damn self – save her from what might have happened if Neil found out about Sinclair – and Harrington had just kept stepping in, stepping up, flashing around his appealing King card like the golden ticket or some shit. 

He'd gotten up in Billy's face when he was already coming apart at the seams. Because Billy was pushing, pushing at Sinclair, until Harrington pushed _HIM._ Touched him. He couldn’t be touched, not so soon after. And he’d just let loose.

Billy supposed this was like that. Because like he’d told Harrington, just after his dad had ordered him around, no one told him what to do – but Harrington was trying to do just that. Like his pops. And he was pushing him around, getting in his face. Like his pops. And when he was slamming his fist again and again into that pretty boy face, feeling the way his skull bounced against the floorboards with the weird drawings all over them, well. It had been like his pops was under him. He was taking out his, his, he didn’t know – rage, fear – on the wrong body.

Because Billy never fought back. He just took it and took it, and it was the same tonight, he just took it and this had been so much worse because Neil had actually laid hands on him. Busted his damn shoulder.

So Harrington had been too close, too in his face again, and he kept touching the shoulder that made the world rock in pain and made it so he couldn’t think and he just did what he knew. Did what came natural. He knocked the shit out of him with albeit limited movements, because Harrington couldn’t seem to understand plain English to keep away, and violence was all Billy had on his side. The only language he could consistently communicate in. What he’d been raised on.

And honestly, then on the kitchen floor, and even now standing awkwardly in the Byers entryway, he was just so embarrassed.  
Red with the shame of it. For his weakness.  
And he didn’t like to feel embarrassed. Not at all.  
He didn’t like to feel like he was troubling people, because he couldn’t rely on anyone but himself. It made the ground feel unstable beneath him, and he didn’t want anyone looking at him the way they did. With pity.

It made him feel like hitting something again. Hitting anything. His bones creaked with the need to destroy something, and he kept flexing his one fist, fingers going in, fingers going out on his good hand, and trying to breath through his nose as everything spun. His bad shoulder pounded with his heartbeat. His fingertips were numb. The Byers bitch was talking to him again. He realized he’d been spacing out in thought.

“Uh, huh?”

“It’s Billy. Billy, right?” She asked softly. “I asked why you didn’t want to go to the hospital? Come in, honey, we’ll get you on the couch in here – “ She was tucking herself against his other side, somewhat cautiously - he didn’t need the help, dammit. 

Billy wondered if her body language indicated Jonathan or Will had blabbed about who had rearranged Harrington’s face last fall. But she still helped him, as he left bloody footprints across her floor.

“Yeah. Billy. I just can’t go there.” Billy said, feeling awkward as fuck.

And you know, she didn’t even push that – didn’t question it, even if she seemed a little disapproving. He admired it. Because he wasn’t willing to give more details than that, but she took it at face value. Seemed to get it. Billy’s reasons were plentiful, but he wouldn’t give even one. 

She just said “Alright. Well I’m Joyce, it’s nice to meet you.”

The reason at the top of Billy’s no-hospitals-ever list was that it would just make his pops madder – he didn’t like people snooping around, even if the cops wouldn’t do anything either way, not for something like this. He’d rather have Billy stay in his room, out of sight, until he was magically okay again.

Neil didn’t seem to like to observe his handiwork afterwards, like Billy was too much of an eyesore. Like if only Billy could just be a good boy, could follow the rules, Neil wouldn’t have to go through so much trouble teaching him a thing or two. Yeah. Yeah, his dad was the top reason. Or at least close to it.

“I thought if I brought him here, you could maybe help him. With his arm.” Harrington nodded towards Billy’s dislocated shoulder, too busy with his hands to gesture – he was always wildly gesticulating, so it was like a damn miracle to have his hands tied up at the moment. “His, his hand is turning _BLUE_ , Ms. Byers.” Harrington said all crazy.

Billy snorted to himself. Couldn’t bring himself to look down at his numb hand – it felt like it wasn’t really there anymore. Like a ghost limb. Was it blue?

“Why would she know what to do?” Billy tried to sneer, just to be an ass, as they plopped him down on the sofa, soft beneath him with a yellow and white pinstriped blanket.

“Er, last time – you know – she uh.” Harrington cleared his throat, gaze skittering away as he stood awkwardly by the edge of the couch, between the cushions and the low coffee table. Licking his lips. Holding the sopping towel loose in one hand, his other hand cocked on his hip. Sounding all plugged up with tissues up his nose.

Ms. Byers didn’t seem to have as much trouble spitting it out though, as she began to examine his shoulder with deft fingers that hovered – not quite touching.  
She took a drag from the Camel cig that was tucked between two of her fingers. Her dark brown gaze on the joint, not on him, a little frown line between her slender brows.

“When - I believe it was you? that beat the shit out of him in October, I was the one that stitched up his head. I heard it was from one of my good plates?” Her eyebrows quirked up in something almost like a belated amusement when she glanced up at him. Something dark and calculating in her eyes, but her mouth was soft, the lines around it tugging up a bit.  
He felt like he was being scolded, but she was amused with him at the same time.

Billy cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am.” 

He looked at the coffee table. He didn’t look at Harrington or Ms. Byers.  
His mouth was stiff when he said the foreign word, chastised. “Sorry.”

Because it had been one of her good plates, apparently. He could feel Harrington’s immediate look burning into the side of his head like lasers or something, but he didn’t look at him. He hadn’t even apologized about fucking up Harrington’s face, but he apologized about a dish. Jesus.  
He could just sense that Harrington was about to start bitching about it, but Joyce kept talking, cutting him off. Maybe she sensed it too.

“It’s alright. It wasn’t like it was my Grandmother’s or anything.” She laughed.

Billy looked at her slowly from the corner of his one good eye – the one that would open. He couldn’t tell if she was joking, or it actually had been her Grandmother's. She was kind of a weird bitch to read. And usually Billy was a real charmer around moms. They just seemed to really like him, the housewife types. The kinds that didn’t get enough action. A lot of them clearly wanted his dick, like that Karen Wheeler bitch. 

But this woman?  
She didn’t seem like no housewife type.

She seemed like something else, like something maybe a little like….Billy shook himself a bit. When she put her hands on his arm, it felt like a mom’s touch. Not some horny housewife’s hungry one. He felt something inside of his chest shrivel at the thought, and he could just glare at the wood panel wall like he could set it on fire like he was the girl in Firestarter or some shit. The wallpaper above it looked to have been scrubbed real well, but there seemed to be faded alphabet letters in it. Weird fuckin’ house, he thought, for not the first time.

“Before I had my boys, I was going to nursing school.” The woman was yammering on. “I didn’t FINISH it, obviously.” She chuckled a little, like she was trying to lighten the mood – and it was sort of working, oddly enough – sucking on her cigarette like she dealt with this kind of shit every day and it wasn’t a big deal. Like it was no trouble, or something. It made something along Billy’s spine ease, just a bit.

“But I remember a thing or two. So what I need you to do, honey, is go real loose, okay? Like a rag doll.” She snuffed out her smoke in an ash tray on the coffee table, and Harrington was hovering there like some psychotic mother hen, hands on his hips, eyes all big.  
And shit if there wasn’t something Billy could say about going 'loose', but he bit his tongue as she put a cool hand against his neck.

He just said, “Okay.” Like he had a wide vocabulary.

She was easing him down onto his back, and every muscle in him was screaming at him to just run, to bolt, to not lie down and show his belly. It left him too exposed. But her hands were soothing with that stupid mom-touch, and his chest was knotted up with it.

“It’ll be over before you know it.” Joyce smiled at him from his side like everything would be okay, even if it wasn’t true.

He went loose like a rag doll.

And then she had her hands on his arm and was pulling steadily, with his forearm bent up, tugging just so, then everything went bright hot white – black stars in his eyes – as she popped it back into place. Billy clenched his jaw to stop himself from making any sound, one good eye twisting shut as he slammed his teeth together against a scream or a curse, he wasn’t sure which. A tiny strangled sound managed to gurgle it’s way out in the back of his throat behind those locked teeth.

“There you go, you did great, honey.” Joyce was smiling down at him when he finally managed to open his eyes again, and he wondered hazily if he was bleeding all over her pinstriped blanket on the couch.

“It’s alright? He’s okay?” Harrington was asking from behind Joyce, still hovering like some stupid, big haired bat, pacing a little with his hands on his hips as he looked down at the two. He sounded so stupid, all stuffed up with those tissues stuffed up his nose, like he had a bad cold. “ Shit, shit, thanks Ms. Byers. Thanks. But hey, his hand’s still all blue.” Harrington was pointing at it with the bloody towel, waving it in the air a little.

“Joyce, Steve. Joyce. It’ll go back to normal, just give it time.” Joyce said. “Has it been less than twelve hours? Since you…” Joyce paused, humming on the word. “Fell?”

Billy felt shifty on the couch when he tried to start sitting up. She let him.  
“I think so.” He said, but he was having trouble keeping track of the time. It’d been a while, he knew that much.

“It’ll probably be alright then. You’ll need to take it easy, and ice it, and probably wear a sling. I can help you make a makeshift one for now.”

“See I told you it needed ice.” Harrington muttered like a little bitch.

Billy threw a glare in his direction, telling him to shut the fuck up with his eyes.  
“I’ll ice it later.”

“No. You’ll ice it now.” Joyce directed him as she stood to hurry away to apparently get an ice pack or something. 

Billy heard her muffled words, talking to Maxine and Will, and through the hallway archway he saw them watching him with big eyes before they scurried down the hall to Will’s room or something, vacating the kitchen.

By the time Joyce had gotten an ice pack on his shoulder and his arm in a sling made out of a few pillowcases, she was staring down at him.  
“So I have some bad news.” She informed him. “You’re going to be the second lucky person I’m going to give stitches to at my kitchen table.”

She glanced pointedly at Harrington, who was obviously the first lucky winner of that honor – thanks to Billy. Billy felt that hot shame again at the thought. At the feeling of blood on his split knuckles. It seemed more real, somehow, sitting in the same living room where he’d straddled Harrington into submission beneath him and broken that expressive, wide face. And now, with his nose all busted again. Shit.

The next thing he knew, Billy was bent over with his right arm in a sling made of Joyce’s baby blue pillow cases, skin dotted in Ninja Turtle band-aids, his head in the metal kitchen sink as Joyce washed his head with shampoo. It made the sudsy water run red in front of his one eye as she rinsed the thick, clotted blood from his hair.

Her long fingernails were scratchy against his scalp like only a woman’s could be in that soothing way, and Billy closed his eye. She’d also gotten him into an oversized t-shirt of Jonathan’s (ugh) but at least it was a band Billy liked. At least the weirdo had some alright music taste, The Ramones, and Billy almost felt bad bleeding on it a little - even if Joyce had mostly gotten him cleaned up. 

She’d even licked her thumb to scrub some blood from his cheek like a total mom, making him flush pink. Christ. Yeah, that had gotten Harrington ‘cough’ laughing into his arm. Dickbag.

Billy couldn’t believe how easily this woman was able to make him do something. He was like some kind of putty in her hands and she knew it. 

When he put his foot down that he wasn’t gonna do it, like having her wash his hair, or wear Byer’s shirt, she was able to twist around her words in that mom voice, smile at him just so, and give him good, solid reasoning – like she couldn’t stitch shit without rinsing his hair, and one of his arms was fucked up – leaving him like a child with his head in the sink, fully clothed, just like she’d wanted him to be.

It was unnerving, almost.  
How could she _DO_ that?

Harrington was sitting patiently at the kitchen table behind him – Billy could feel his eyes on his back, wondered if Harrington was asking himself the same question of 'how.'  
Harrington was going on and on and on in the background about something or other to Joyce, because he could rarely shut up – but Billy wasn’t paying much attention over the rush of the water in his ears. Could hardly hear him.

Then Joyce was scrubbing a towel in Billy’s long hair, carefully avoiding the gash in the back of his head and the swollen, painful bruised area around it.

And so it was that Billy found himself sitting at the Byers kitchen table with Joyce standing behind him, soft fingers in his curls. He clenched his left hand into a knot on the table as his right arm curled protectively against his chest in the sling. Because in the dull yellow light of the kitchen, she was drawing a deadly sharp needle and floss through the open cut with deft fingers, after burning the tip of it with a match. The sharp scent of disinfectant strong on the air. 

That sting and dig of the needle in his flesh was making the scene play on repeat in his head, of his skull smacking into the corner of the door before he’d crumpled like the life had been sucked from his body. The moment when everything had gone surreal and spotty.

They didn’t really talk, any of them. Even Harrington was finally quiet, after taking the tissues out of his nose, his face all cleaned up too. There was only the sound of Billy breathing in through his teeth, sounding like steam rising from cracked geysers in the earth, and the steady tick of the clock on the wall.

With Harrington at his side like some kind of weird, new constant.


	8. Were you ever going to tell me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> March 30th - April 5th, 1985

That night, with stitches beneath his hair and his arm in a stupid pillowcase sling, Billy stood on the Byers porch. He was smoking a Camel, and he never smoked Camels, but he had bummed one off of Joyce. She was sitting in one of the chairs on the porch, her legs criss-crossed as she drew in a lungful of smoke and released it into the darkness. They were close to leaving, and Harrington was just gathering up Maxine and saying bye to Will or whatever it was he was doing. Billy was waiting on them with an ice pack on his shoulder, and a cig hanging from his lips.

"You can keep the ice pack." Joyce murmured. "Keep it on there, alright? At least for a while." She took another drag, her dark brown eyes almost black in the night.

Billy glanced back at her once, her pixie face lit up by the fire red cherry, reflecting in her eyes like demon light. Billy sighed and looked down, barefoot on the porch, his injured foot properly bandaged now. The world seemed too big tonight. Too many things had happened. And Billy knew he just needed to sleep, take the time to process the lot of it.

It wasn’t the injuries, wasn’t the beating he’d had coming, which he’d deserved. It wasn’t the way his pops words haunted his head like they always did – telling him what a piece of shit he was, what a waste of space, a no good faggot following his fucked up dick.

He was used to that.  
That was normal.

And it wasn’t getting drugged at a party until he couldn’t stand for vomiting. It wasn’t standing in the too-hot California night after being inside of a stranger, and not knowing how or why it had happened because someone had slipped him something. But somehow being okay with it.  
It wasn’t losing himself to drugs and alcohol to escape from it all.

Because that, too, was normal.

The rest of it? That wasn’t normal.  
People helping him?

Someone getting him out of that bathroom that didn’t have the intention of screwing him senseless in a backroom? Bringing him to a warm home with hot coffee instead?

Someone pulling him off of his bedroom floor without trying to beat him back down to it with blood on their knuckles? Calling for help instead?

Someone delivering him to a kind hand that could put him back together with a steel sharp needle? A soft touch washing blood from his hair?

That wasn’t normal.  
And Billy didn’t know how to process it. It made him want to get angry. Made him want to fight it. Because people didn’t do that. Not for Billy Hargrove. And there had to be a reason.

He sucked in a lungful of nicotine, let it burn down his throat like comfort, held it for a second, before releasing it like fire from his lungs. Showed his teeth in a grimace to the sky as he let the familiar anger flood his limbs, driving away his unsure feelings – the unfamiliar dread of having someone treat him this way, because no, it wasn’t normal, and there had to be a catch.  
People weren’t kind without a catch.

They didn’t help unless there was something in it for them.  
And it made him feel cornered, like he wasn’t seeing the rules for this game – and he didn’t like not knowing the rules. He didn’t like not knowing what they thought they could get out of him.

His ice chip eyes glinted mean in the moonlight as he sucked the tarry spit from the cigarette filter, breathing more smoke.  
“I don’t need it after this, ma’am.” He told Joyce. Shifted his shoulder a little where the pack was draped over it, but it still ached like a mother fucker and it didn’t really want to move well yet, like a rusted hinge in need of oil.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I insist. You need it.” Joyce said, still curled up in her little chair. Watching him with those eyes that saw through him, that cellophane-look that he hated.

He flicked ash from his cigarette, refusing to look back at her. “Yeah and I don’t fuckin’ want it.” He grit out, wanting her to hear him. He didn’t want her help, and he didn’t want this vulnerable feeling. He wanted to snuff it out with his anger. It was easier that way.

“Well, you’ve got it.” She said, and her voice was still calm and even – she didn’t get riled up at his sudden attitude. She just seemed thoughtful.

That just seemed to piss him off more, down in his core, made him feel more seen. He clenched his bare toes on the wood and took a drag, the sole of his foot pulsing painfully with his heartbeat. He focused on that. The pain.

“And you’ve also got my help. If you need it.” The woman said all soft.

Billy felt the fire of his cigarette bleeding onto his tongue, tasting of nicotine and unfounded fury. 

“I don’t want that either.” He bit out.

“Well I just stitched your head back together. And put your arm back the way it should be. What was that?” Joyce gestured at him with her own cigarette – he could see the fire bright cherry moving in his peripheral.

“I didn’t ask you to. _Ma’am._ ”

Joyce hummed. “That’s true. But I wanted to. And if you need it again, I’ll be here. Listen, Billy…”

Her tone made Billy’s hackles go up. He glanced over at her sharply now at the way her voice dropped lower. 

“Were you ever going to tell me? What really happened tonight?” She was watching him with those big fuckin’ doe eyes, all dark in the night like some kinda insightful black holes. Too much like Harrington’s.

His mouth formed a long, thin, dangerous line, and he just shook his head. Once. Ignoring the way it made his head pound, even though Joyce had loaded him up with Ibuprofen. He didn’t say nothin’ to her question. He just turned away. She was nodding though, he could see from the corner of his eye. Just kinda nodding to herself like she’d expected that.

“Well look. All of Will and Jonathan’s friends, they all know they’re always welcome here. Steve knows that, too. And - ”

“I ain’t their friend.”

“ _And_ – “ Joyce continued like he hadn’t interrupted her, “- no matter what, I want you to know that you’re welcome here too. Any time. Any day. For any reason. Alright? You need anything, or anything else happens? You can come here. If you want. I won’t ask questions, if you don’t want to give answers.”

She stood up, close to his shoulder, so much shorter than him. She was crossing her arms over her chest in a self-hug as she looked up at the sky, like they were just two people star gazing together.  
“And you don’t need to lie to me, or give an excuse. No matter the reason, you’re welcome.”

Billy swallowed roughly, his throat feeling a little tight, and he kept his eyes on the bright, clear spring sky. There were a million stars spread out over them like a velvet blanket of diamond dust. He just nodded. Didn’t think he could get nothin’ out of his throat. He never planned on coming back here, though.  
She seemed to accept that as an answer either way.

“And be gentle with Steve, alright?” She asked him, and this time, he did look over at her to watch the way her expressive eyebrows raised like arches on her forehead. She didn’t look at him, just kept watching the sky, and somehow that made him feel better – without her eyes on him with that cellophane-look. Like he could look at her without, himself, being seen.

He gave her a questioning look, even though he knew what she meant.  
“What you mean? Don’t think the pretty boy can take it?”

She waved her cigarette around a little, one arm still folded tight over her chest. “Oh it’s not that, you know what I mean.” She smiled up at the night sky, smoke streaming from her nose. “Just try not to break his poor face so much. He always means well, that boy. He wasn’t born with a mean bone in his body. Even if he tries to make it look that way.”

She stared at the sky pointedly. Billy had a lot of mean bones in his body, he knew. He bowed his head.

“And I understand that you’re sorry for breaking my dish.” She went on. She didn’t sound like she was talking about her dinnerware. “So maybe just try to be more careful, hm? Although I appreciate your apology, I’m hoping it doesn’t happen again. I only have so many of those dishes left. Thank you for apologizing.”

Billy thought of the way he’d apologized for breaking a dish, but not for breaking Harrington’s face. And now he’d busted it again. He tugged up his too-tight pants one handed, slinging them a little higher on his hips by his leather belt, and studied the porch, cig bobbing from his lips when he spoke.

“Yeah, yeah. I hear you.” He said.

She nodded, satisfied. “Good. Now let’s get you kids home.”

He wondered how she’d managed to give him a talking to without sounding like it. He wasn’t even angry about it – usually it sounded like people were telling him what to do. Pushing him against the wall and making him submit to their demands, exposing his throat. Forcing him to say he understood.

And this hadn’t been that. It had been a very round about suggestion that he felt like if he ignored, he’d regret it later. In one way or another. But that it was his choice, a choice that could inadvertently hurt this woman who had helped him for no reason he understood. He thought, again, that she was a weird bitch to read.

And he thought again, of how this wasn’t normal.

  \----------------- 

It had been a week since Steve had helped scrub up Billy’s blood to get their house presentable before midnight. When he’d left the house before the clock struck twelve like Cinderella leaving the ball or something, before the magic of rubber gloves and bleach fumes was up. Billy had been on his case again like it was the norm, and Steve was kind of starting to wonder if maybe he’d gone on some kind of insane sixties hippie acid trip last weekend and it was all in his head.

Because Billy was acting exactly like he had before.  
As in, before Billy had beat the shit out of him months ago.

Because the fact was that now, Billy was talking to Steve again. Could it be called talking? Harassing him was a better term. They weren’t just mostly ignoring each other anymore – Billy was just back to giving him consistent shit. Shoving him down on the basketball court, calling him a girl in the locker rooms, getting way too up close and personal in the showers, shoulder checking him in the hallways into open locker doors.  
Leaning against his Camaro in the parking lot as Steve walks to the BMW, watching him like some kind of intense hawk behind his aviators. 

But during a few of these instances, Steve could see traces of the last weekend.  
Small things, like how Billy was always favoring his shoulder, and he was playing on the shirts side on the court; which was rare. The way he's still limping a little, but trying to hide it. The violent black eye he claims he got from fighting, but he'd barely been able to see out of before. 

It reminds Steve that last weekend was real. And Steve couldn’t say he was surprised that the makeshift sling, or even a real one, were never seen beyond Joyce Byers house. He’d thought that had been a little too far fetched for Billy – to actually wear the damn sling like a sane person that was healing.

He guessed it was better than them avoiding each other and mostly ignoring one another, but he wasn’t sure if he was happy to be back to Billy constantly pestering him, either. Constantly pushing him, challenging him, trying to pinhole him like he was searching for Steve’s breaking point. It was really annoying when Steve had spent the last weekend carting the guy all over Hawkins with his blood on his hands, scrubbing the red from carpet, vomit on his shoes.

It was Friday again and Steve absolutely did not plan on daring to go to another party tonight – he’d had his fill of partying last week with Billy. Steve was sitting in second period English Comp., and he couldn’t say he was really paying attention – even with graduation only a little over a month away. How was it almost April? He was gazing out the slats of the brown blinds covering the windows. Looking at the sunny weather, absently chewing on his yellow #2 pencil. Leaving teeth marks in it, and making it a little slimy.

They were supposed to be working on an outline for a paper, but he was thinking about being outside, and he didn’t know what to make the outline about. He guessed he was maybe trying to think about a topic, but the sun looked like summer, and in a little over a month he’d never be in this school again. He hadn’t gotten into any of the colleges he’d applied to, so the motivation to finish the school year well had gone out the window he was looking through.

He’d mostly just been doodling in his notebook, a whole troupe of poorly drawn, cartoony dinosaurs marching over the top of the page. When a wadded up lump of paper hit the back of his head, Steve jerked in his seat, hand going up as he twisted around, looking for the source, but he didn’t see anyone looking back at him. 

Steve narrowed his eyes and bent down to grab the crumpled up, college lined paper – superstitiously glancing towards the teacher’s desk, but Ms. Baskin was looking at something on her desk – a stack of papers she might have been grading.

He carefully uncrumpled the paper beneath his desk, tilting it so he could read through the creases. In extremely clear, legible, neat handwriting it read ‘Meet me by The Ivy after practice.’ Steve squinted at it.

The Ivy was a certain part of the school that was draped in evergreen ivy vines from top to bottom, but it only covered one portion of the building. Sometimes students liked to hang out at the base of vines smoking or talking or, sometimes, making out. By the time practice was over, nobody would be there. There was no name signed on the paper.

Steve crumpled the note back up and shoved it into his backpack, trying to figure out who behind him had thrown it. He didn’t know anyone else in this class, at least not on friendly terms. He reached up and ran the edge of his forefinger thoughtfully along the bridge of his nose, still tender, still a little swollen – still bruised black and purple, but it was fading and yellowing like aging paper.  
Soon it would be gone completely.

\------------------

Steve was at his locker after second period, throwing his books into his it. His Ray-Bans were pushed up on top of his head as he grabbed what he’d need for third period after lunch, so he didn’t have to come back to the locker. A soft touch at his shoulder made him jump a little, twisting to face – Nancy. He rushed out a breath with a grin.

“Christ, hey Nance. What’s up?”

“Hey Steve.” She smiled up at him with her cute little smile, clutching her text books and her kitten Trapper Keeper against her chest like some kind of a scholastic shield. 

She had a purse slung over her shoulder instead of a back pack. For whatever reason she was insistent on carrying her things in her arms, like she might lose them if she let them out of her grasp. She looked prim and perfect as always in a lacy blouse and a long, pressed skirt with clogs. Her ballerina slipper necklace catching in the light. Steve’s throat caught a little and he looked away.

“You wanna eat lunch with us today?” She asked him as she started walking alongside him towards the cafeteria.

Steve ate lunch with them every day. He raised a brow, glancing down at her from the side with a peculiar look.

“Well yeah.” He said, like it was obvious. Because it was.

She sucked in her cheeks a little and her gaze skittered away.

Steve watched her more carefully as they walked. He’d wondered why she’d come to his locker – usually he just meet her and Jonathan at their usual table.

“What is it?”

“Huh? Oh nothing. I just wanted to know – “ She started, but Steve interrupted her. “Nance. I always eat with you guys.”  
Who else would he eat with?

“Oh well I know, I just…” Then finally whatever words she’d swallowed down, burning in her belly, burst out all sudden as they walked through the hallway. Dodging other student bodies. “Okay so, uh, I was just wondering if you wanted to talk to me.” She said in a rush.

Steve stared at her stupidly, not really paying attention to where they were going, hanging on to the straps of his backpack. “…about what?”

“Oh, you know. Last weekend.” She raised her brows at him expectantly.  
Like she planned on being his therapist and fully expected him to spill his guts. Like he probably would have when they were dating, honestly. 

Steve scowled down at her – she was so much smaller than him, he actually had to tilt his chin to really look at her. “What about last weekend?”

“Well you tell me! I just heard – “

Steve sighed at that and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You heard what? From who?”

“Well, from Mike. Billy Hargrove?” She asked, and then nodded pointedly at his still healing nose, the shadows of two black eyes. “You wouldn’t tell us how your face got like that. I thought you had better sense than to go around that guy again, Steve.”

“What did Mike say?” Steve didn’t confirm or deny anything. That little shitheel. Now he was going to have to deal with The Party trying to grill him later. He was sure that Will had only told Mike - then Mike had blabbed to everyone else.

“Well nothing I guess. He just said that Will mentioned that you and Billy were at his house, with Max. He didn’t say what happened though, or why, and Mike’s whole little….’party’ or whatever wouldn’t shut up about it. But look at your face! Again! He’s dangerous. What the _hell,_ Steve? He’s going to hurt you if you keep going around him. What were you thinking?”

Steve knocked his shades down over his face despite being inside and ran a hand through his full cloud of brunette hair. As if he could hide the evidence. “Look, Nance, it was different this time. Alright? And I don’t plan on being friends with the guy, and I can take care of myself.”

“Oh, like you took care of yourself so well last time? Well, how was this time different? Do you have a death wish? Explain it to me!” Nancy clipped along at a quick pace, forcing Steve to keep up – she was doing that short little agitated walk she did when she was getting worked up.

“I can’t.” Steve shook his head.

That was not his story to tell, and if Billy hadn’t mentioned it – and he obviously hadn’t, or the whole school would know by now – then Steve wasn’t going to, either.

“I just don’t want you getting hurt, Steve.” Nancy pointed out. Her voice softened when she spoke again. “You can tell me anything. Look, if you need _help_ , I can _talk_ to him.” She said the word ‘talk’ like she was saying the word ‘shoot.’ Like Steve was in trouble but he couldn’t say something out of fear, like some abuse victim.

“Je-sus Christ.” Steve rolled his eyes, breathed in all slow through his nose as they kept walking at her brisk pace. He couldn’t. Not anymore. He hadn’t been able to for a long time, it seemed like. He still trusted her, wanted to be her friend. Loved her in…in a different way, than before, he thought. But he couldn’t tell her everything.

“I don’t need help. Please just don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal.”

“Then why is he on your case again all of a sudden?”

“I don’t know.”

“It seemed like he was finally getting better after Max put him in his place.”

Steve scrubbed a palm over his face as they got to the lunch room, both heading for the lunch line to get their plastic trays.

“I thought so too. Can we just drop this, Nance? Ooh look. Chicken nuggets.” Steve said, changing the subject as they loaded up their trays with questionable looking chicken nuggets, cartons of milk, apple sauce, sliced fruit drowning in sugar sweet syrup, and green beans.

“You’re literally the only person who likes those.” Nancy wrinkled her dainty nose.

“What? They’re good.”

“No, you’d just eat anything.”

“I’ve been told I have a stomach of steel. But that’s besides the point.” Steve said as he stuffed a piece of the mystery chicken nuggety goodness in his mouth, before they’d even sat down.

“You’re like a human garbage disposal.” Nancy laughed at that. “You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington.” 

And the familiar endearment, with her soft little smile reserved for him, didn’t hurt. It didn’t.

When they finally did sit down at the lunch table, Steve was thinking about Billy at that house party. He supposed it was because Nancy had gotten Billy onto his mind. He told himself that Hargrove hadn’t been taking up space in his thoughts for most of the week. As he sat across from Nancy and Jonathan on the hard bench of the long, wood paneled lunch table, he could tell they were holding hands beneath the tabletop. It was there in the way they were both only eating with the hands opposite their touching shoulders, the way they leaned into each other.

And it made him think about what Billy had said. That he’d be calling a girl that got on another guy’s dick while they were still dating a bitch, and why didn’t Steve? Saying there was something wrong with him to still be friends with his ex and her new boyfriend that she’d cheated on him with. And maybe there was. But he wanted this to work. He didn’t want to lose them. Either of them. 

Even if it was hard to look at them sometimes – even if the remaining bond between them was mostly forged from 'shared trauma', or so Will had told him from some psychobabble speech his therapist had given him. Either way, Steve couldn’t lose that tie in someone his own age. He needed them and he knew it. Maybe he’d always need Nancy, even if she was a pain in his ass sometimes. Jonathan, not as much…even if he was an okay guy. Maybe.

Steve tore into his chicken nuggets as Nancy gave him a mildly disgusted look at how much he seemed to enjoy them. Jonathan seemed unfazed as usual, giving him a faint amused look as he slid Steve some of his extra nuggets across the table.

“They do taste a little like cardboard.” Jonathan admitted in his whisper quiet voice, smiling a little, eyes on the faux wood tabletop. 

Steve shrugged and took off his Ray-Bans, hooking them on the front of his polo. Chewing absently on Jonathan’s chicken nuggets.  
“Thanks man.”  
And Steve supposed things were alright.

That was, until he glanced across the cafeteria at Tommy and Carol seated at Billy’s table – what used to be Steve’s table. Billy, who was sipping nothing but a can of Dr Pepper, no food in front of him. His electric blue eyes were burning into Steve as he tilted the pop back, showing off the curve of his throat – Adams apple bobbing with drink as he swallowed.

Nancy seemed to follow his gaze, curiosity twisting her around in her seat to follow the line of Steve’s eyes. She made an irritated noise in the back of her throat, watching as Billy caught her stare instead, wiggling his tongue out in the air at her with that fierce grin of his. Blue eyes flashing across the distance.

It made her huff and turn back around, her crimped brown bob swaying as she pointed her fork at Steve – a few green beans impaled on the tines.  
“I told you. Trouble.”

But Steve hadn’t looked away from Billy.

\--------------

Maybe he should have expected it from the way Billy was looking at him from across the lunchroom, but basketball practice that day was a complete shit show. Billy had only recently showing back up to practice, and Steve had been surprised, what with his shoulder and foot.

But today, Billy either wouldn’t get out of his face, boxing him and the ball into a cage with those long arms and his heavier mass, or he wouldn’t get off of his ass, bumping into his shoulders as he herded him forward like a sheep dog showing off it’s teeth.

He had Steve slammed down on the glossy floorboards more than once, even though he kept on trying to plant his feet, draw a charge or whatever. Hating himself for even trying to utilize the advice – even if it had worked against demo-dogs, it still didn’t work against Billy ramming into him like a damn train.

Steve had gritted through clenched teeth _“I see your shoulder’s feeling better”_ once and gotten _shoulder_ checked to the floor for it, like Billy was proving a point. Or like Billy had some kind of vendetta to win or something. But Steve didn’t know what the point was, or who it was for. For Steve or Billy?

“Oh yeah, I’m feeling real peachy. Thanks for asking, King Steve.”

The whistle blew. Steve lay there for a second, too sweaty in his tube socks and flimsy gym shorts, bare chested on the court and breathing hard. He just stared up at the cage-covered lights above the court, his shoulder blades and tail bone smarting, before he saw a hand in his face – Billy’s good left hand, the one without a ring (he took it off during practice.) A catholic medallion also dangled in Steve’s face from a long, thick chain. He just looked at that extended hand distrustfully for a second, mouth puckered and sour. 

“At least you’re trying to plant your feet.” Billy muttered down at him, his neck and gilded curls glossy with sweat as he licked his lower lip with a wicked grin. “Not doing much good, though, is it? You’re hopeless, Harrington.”

Steve grunted and slapped that hand away, muttering “Stop giving me shit, Hargrove. Get that outta my face.”

He knew better than to accept that hand, not anymore, and he rolled onto his belly before scrambling up to his knees, then to his feet, feeling worse for wear after being dropped several times.  
Billy shrugged at him like it was his loss, sarcastically muttering 'What, don't _trust_ me?" under his breath. But there was some fire behind the words. Something that sounded like anger. Low enough only Steve could hear him.

Steve flushed at that last comment, and again, the last weekend didn’t feel real. He thought of what was hiding under that shirt.

Tommy had apparently heard Steve’s reply, but not Billy's, laughing with his stupid donkey laugh. “I think you mean he’s making you _EAT_ shit, asshole.” Tommy snickered as he ran away towards their end of the court.

“Yeah fuck you too!” Steve called after him.

“Hey, _LANGUAGE!_ Move it out there, girls!” Coach bellowed from the sidelines, pacing a little as he watched them. “I want to see some hustle, Harrington! And Hargrove, you watch yourself"

Steve adjusted himself to start dribbling the ball, passing it to one of his teammates, having to bluff to get around Billy’s ever-present, reaching arms, always too close, too close.  
Giving off heat like a furnace, nearly like an embrace inches apart.

\-------------

Steve rushed through his shower after practice, the half crumpled up note in his backpack on his mind – curious about getting to The Ivy and determining who had chucked the thing at his head. To ask why? He’d always had a curious streak a mile wide.

He was also anxious to get out of the locker room because, as usual, Billy had taken up the spot next to Steve’s own shower head. He was sliding soap over his body in languid swipes of his hands – maybe his bruises had been fading enough that he finally felt comfortable showering with the boys again, because he wasn’t exactly trying to hide it, and if anyone asked he said he’d gotten into a fight. 

_'You shoulda seen the other guy,'_ Billy'd say.  
No mention of stairs, or anything else for that matter. He still treated his right arm a little gingerly, though, Steve noticed, and Billy didn't settle his full weight onto the foot he'd damaged.

Steve was scrubbing shampoo through his long hair, scratching against his scalp with rushed fingers before he stepped into the spray to wash it away, eager to get out of there.

“So your old bitch Wheeler was giving me eyes at lunch today Harrington.” Billy purred over at him over the sound of water, a little smirk on his closed lips.

Those soapy, long fingers traced over Billy’s abdomen, the ridges of his muscles, and Steve wasn’t looking, he wasn’t – he just glanced over once, then stared down at the tiled floor as he finished lathering himself up. 

He thought of Billy saying he’d caught Steve staring before, when he was on Steve’s couch – and Jesus if it wasn’t true, the guy was built like some kind of a Greek god or something. Like a marble statue you’d find perfectly preserved at the bottom of the ocean from the time of Zeus and Hera. Like Hercules or some shit.  
Did anyone NOT look at Billy?  
Steve imagined looking at Billy Hargrove was what it must be like to stand in an Art Museum in Europe or something, though he’d rather die than say it.

He heard Billy asking him from his couch if Steve was jealous of his body, or – or if he wanted it. Wanted him. Kidding around like it was a joke.  
Steve clenched his eyes shut into the spray, refusing to look over again. _As if._

He could feel Billy’s eyes on him, though, like he had in the lunchroom – those eyes that were so electrically charged, blue lightning. He could FEEL the electricity of them like a physical touch, like he always could – especially when they were in the showers, nothing but close bare skin, shiny with water and slick with soap, surrounded by other naked boys wreathed in steam – but he could only ever feel Billy’s presence, really. Billy made himself known. They could have practically been alone if it weren’t for Tommy’s stupid prying.

Steve told himself it wasn’t the same kind of electricity he’d told Dustin about. It was different.

“You fuckin’ wish." Steve said, spitting water from the spray. "Like you could get with someone like Nancy. She wasn’t giving you eyes, and I told you not to call her that.” 

If anyone was giving eyes, he always felt like Billy was giving him these intense bedroom eyes. Fucking with him to get a reaction, he knew. Just to get a rise out of Steve.

“Oh fuck if she wasn’t. That Byers creep must not be enough to satisfy her, either, huh? Bet she wants a real man.”

“Yeah, a real man, and that obviously isn’t you Stevie-boy, huh? Billy could give it to her real good, I bet.” Tommy guffawed from a few places down.

Steve’s eyes snapped back open as he glared over at Billy, trying to ignore Tommy’s lame ass. Even if the guy’s absence in his life was still foreign, like a missing ghost limb – even if it was a limb that had rotted off from gangrene, he still missed it. His best friend who had become too poisonous to be around. Just another asshole.

Billy seemed to perk up the minute Steve looked at him again, lips quirking in a smile, as if that had been his goal. Steve focused his dark brown eyes, tried not to let them drop, but they did on their own, as he thought – a real man, huh? - down to that perfect California gold skin, rippling over muscle, the dip of his breastbone, the roll of his abs when he turned beneath the spray. The V of his hips and the dots of his hipbones, leading down to…

He heard Billy’s words ringing in his ears _‘You want it, Harrington? That it?’_ as _‘Let’s Dance’_ pulsed in the background of Steve’s living room.

Steve jerked his gaze back up to look into Billy’s charged eyes. They looked pleased. Shit, he’d caught him looking again, but it, it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t. Steve clenched his jaw, an excuse on his tongue, but no one else seemed to have noticed. No one besides Billy.  
He knew that Billy was just pushing buttons, looking for a reaction, just like he had been when he’d sprawled with his back against Steve’s couch and asked if he wanted him.

It was only for a reaction. Like a joke, or a game.

“Fuck you. I’m not even dignifying that with a response. You guys are assholes. Don’t say that shit about Nancy.” He said, his hands curling into fists.

Billy’s tongue darted out, licking the space between them like he tasted a fight on the air.

“What, ‘cause you know it’s true? You even know what a real man’s like, pretty boy? Huh? And is that an _offer?”_ Billy’s voice was a rumble in his chest as he mocked Steve. Those words heavy with pointed sarcasm at the end, and Tommy was doing that overly familiar, dumb donkey bray laugh he always did.

Steve smacked the water tap off and twisted on his heel. He had to get out of there. He flipped the California boy off over his shoulder as he grabbed his towel, draping it around the rise of his hips as he hurried to his locker. He could feel Billy’s eyes on his back, digging in right between his shoulder blades. He could still hear his sharp laughter, like the edge of a knife, over the crowing and laughing and chatter of the other team members.

He had to get out of there because he knew if he’d stayed beneath the spray, he’d have punched Billy in the jaw, and then they’d be right back at square one from October. He couldn’t believe last weekend was real, not an illusion of the light. He needed to stop thinking about it. He had somewhere to be, and a stranger to meet.

Fuck Billy Hargrove. The guy gave him whiplash.

And fuck Steve for trying to help him.

Nancy was right. He was nothing but trouble.


	9. Don't ask me that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 5th, 1985

Steve was sitting down, leaning against a violently green wall of ivy leaves, knees propped up as he held his gray Walkman II in his lap. A cigarette sat behind his ear as he fiddled with his Walkman, fast-forwarding to _Miserable Lie_ on _The Smiths_ cassette he’d recorded a few days ago. His yellow foam pad headphones were over his ears, Ray-Ban’s on despite sitting in the shade of the brick building. 

Apparently ‘after practice’ had been a pretty non-specific time-frame, and Steve was just waiting around. He glanced at his watch, gauging the time he needed to go to pick up the kids from AV Club – on days with practice, he didn’t have to pick them up right after school, and he had some time on his hands. 

So he didn’t mind the waiting, but if it were much longer, he’d probably assume that maybe someone had just been fucking with him to see if he’d show up. He glanced around a few times from the cover of his shades to see if anyone was watching him from a distance, laughing at him from a car or something, as he waited for no one like an idiot. But he didn’t see anyone. 

So he kept up the wait, for a while longer at least. He stopped fast-forwarding at what he guessed might be the right timing, and pressed play. He settled back into the deep green, a contrast to the beginnings of spring around him, then about jumped out of his skin when someone touched his arm. He must have been feeling jumpy today – Nance had scared him too, sneaking up behind him.

Steve jerked his head to the left, eyes wide behind his shades, only to see – Billy. Crouching next to him on the toes of his scuffed leather boots, resting his elbows on those ripped knees of his jeans. He was gazing down at Steve in something like mild amusement at making the brunette jump, who slid his headphones off to hang around his neck. Giving Billy a flat look. 

Billy acted like he was gonna slap him on the shoulder, or maybe hit him on the arm, but stopped midway when Steve flinched back into the ivy. 

“Two for flinching.” Billy grinned mean like a tiger and lightly punched Steve twice in his biceps, but with his middle knuckle jutting out.

Steve hissed and rubbed his arm, rocking away from Billy on his hip as he glared at the other guy warily. He hadn’t been kidding about Billy giving him some kind of mental or emotional whiplash or whatever. He’d just been a royal douchebag in the showers, now he was acting like…this? Dicking around like usual. Why was he even here in the first place? 

“Man what’re you doing here?” 

“The fuck you mean what’m I doin’ here?” Billy frowned as he landed on his ass next to Steve, his legs spread wide, resting his wrists on each knee. With his curly crown tilted towards Steve, Billy looked down at the Walkman in his lap. 

“Just what I said, I mean what’re you doing here?”

“What’m I doing here…I’m the one that invited _YOU_ , pretty boy.” Billy said like he was an idiot, raising his eyebrows, those blue eyes glittering as he looked up at Steve. 

A line of confusion wrinkled Steve’s brow as he looked over at the boy now sitting next to him – reminding himself he was pissed with Billy for what he’d said about Nance, and for a week of non-stop shit after Steve had run himself haggard trying to help Billy last weekend. Most of his anger had run off though, as he'd relaxed in the spring shade and listened to music.

He suspected that Billy antagonizing him was because maybe Billy was…hell, he didn’t know. It was difficult assigning reason and rhyme to why Billy Hargrove did what he did. 

But he had assumed maybe it was because Billy was embarrassed or something about last weekend. About Steve having to help him out of not one, but two shitty situations, and he knew that Billy always liked to be in control of everything and everyone around him. That much was clear.

So maybe he was somehow punishing Steve for helping him? Hell, he didn’t know! Steve scowled over at Billy. 

“You – what? How is that possible? You aren’t even in my English class.” 

He couldn’t help but look at Billy in disbelief, or keep the irritation from his voice, the low hum of _‘Miserable Lie’_ still vibrating from the headphones around his neck. Billy had been the last person he’d expected.

The bronzed blonde was sliding a cigarette from his pack of Marlboros, and lighting it with his Zippo lighter with a swift flourish of flame and silver. 

“You’re in A.P English with Nancy.” Steve said like an accusation, messing around with the Walkman. 

Like he wasn’t supposed to know that, but did, because Nance had told him so. And he suspected that Billy liked to keep that shit under wraps, but Steve thought he might have one of the best G.P.A’s in their class, though you wouldn’t suspect it with how much the guy ditched and seemed to blow off his class work. Or just generally didn’t pay any attention in the classes they did share, which were few. 

Billy breathed out a line of smoke into the cool blue of the shade.

“Well yeah.” He said in that low, steady voice. He used a different tone than when he was surrounded by other people. Like the voice he’d used on Steve’s couch, but less intoxicated. “I just told some chick in your class that if she’d do it, I’d owe her a favor.” 

“A favor.” Steve repeated. “You couldn’t just tell me yourself? And a favor for what?”

Billy glanced at him, eyebrows raised, a smirk curling up the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t figured you’d show. What, you want the dirty details, Harrington? All you gotta do is ask nice. Say please.” Smoke furled from his flaring nostrils like a dragon, tongue licking over lips.

Steve blinked, shoving his glasses up on top of his head with a heavy frown, brows furrowed, feeling his ears go a little pink at the tips like candle flames. 

“Hell no I don’t.” Steve huffed. “That’s literally all the information I need. Nope. Got it. Done.” He waved a hand and looked away. 

A sexual favor, then, he didn’t need to know more. Didn’t want to. Billy’s smirk widened.

“Anyways, why? Why meet me here? You’ve been on my ass all week, Hargrove – not enough time in the school day, or what?”

Steve grit his teeth, rubbing his arm again on impulse where Billy’d given him two hits for flinching. It was kind of rich coming from a guy that seemed to flinch a lot – at least last weekend, he certainly had, like the world was out to get him or something, though Steve couldn't blame him being in that shape. 

“Look, if you’re here to – “ He started, already beginning to grab his bag to get up – feeling stupid for meeting Billy here. 

But Billy compulsively reached out to grab his wrist, stilling him, tugging him back down – not forcefully exactly, but with enough muscle behind it to be firm. 

“Slow your roll, pretty boy. What do you mean?” 

Steve screwed up his mouth as he looked over at Billy, tugging his hand from that hot grip, leaning forward and away from the wall of ivy. 

“You know what I’m talking about. You’ve been on my case since last weekend. I don’t know what your problem is, man.” 

Steve’d built up a tolerance to it before they’d stopped talking months ago, and he’d been mostly passive about it, even if it had royally sucked to constantly run into Billy at every turn. Like the guy was waiting for him. Passive, at least, until their run in at the Byers' house. But for it to come back in full force all week after the period of radio silence had been too much at once, and he couldn't down shift his gears about it.

“You know, I don’t think I do.” Billy flashed this big, lazy, charming grin, his gaze latching into Steve’s skin. Lids lowering. “Remind me.”

“Ugh, c’mon. Really? You’ve been keeping the ball from me in gym, you almost brained me on a locker, you fuckin’ _TOWEL SNAPPED_ me, you gave me at least two flat tires in the hall – you spent the entire lunch period on Tuesday blowing spit balls at my head through a 7-Eleven Slurpee straw, you jackass!” They were bigger than normal straws, and that was the point. 

“And that’s just to name a few things. And what was all that about Nancy earlier?” Steve snapped, his voice slowly growing louder the longer he kept going. 

Billy’s grin seemed to crawl ever wider with every word out of Steve’s big mouth, if that was actually possible, crinkles forming around those blue eyes – watching him with rapt attention. Like Billy was pleased as punch with Steve noticing his handiwork, and was gushing about it. Biting his lower lip a little against his bright white grin. Steve scoffed.

“So why do you want to talk now, Hargrove? Huh?” Steve was still gripping his backpack near his hip – ready to stand and leave at a moment’s notice.  
“Are you really that pissed from last weekend?” He pushed as he looked for a reason, needed a reason, running a hand through his hair, shifting the frames of his shades.  
“Or why the special treatment all of a sudden?”

He knew he was talking a million miles a minute, yammering like he sometimes did, but he couldn’t help it. It made him anxious. He wanted a reason for what seemed to be pointless, relentless bullying from Billy’s end.

Billy’s ever-growing Cheshire cat grin had dropped away to leave a more serious look, like his eyes were shuttering, dimming in the low afternoon light. 

“Ain’t no special treatment, don’t flatter yourself. I was just fuckin’ around with you, Harrington, Jesus, don’t be a dramatic sumbitch. Figured you could take it. Not my fault you’re a weak little bitch. And…don’t ask me that. Shit. No. Though you could learn a thing or two about minding your own goddamn business, I ain’t pissed about last weekend,. Why’d you think that?” He seemed genuinely surprised at Steve’s conclusion.

“Because you’re doing your whole…thing!” Steve gestured wildly with his hands, the Walkman in one of them. 

Billy sighed, puffing on his cigarette, side eyeing him like _STEVE_ was the crazy one here. 

“Look. I’m not mad about it.” Billy's gravelly voice was all clear and low, words clipped, his face all screwed up. Like it was hard to talk, or form the words around the cigarette at his lips. 

He was looking up at the open blue sky now, flicking ash on the slowly greening grass in between his spread out knees. He was only wearing a gray, unbuttoned Henley and those tight-ass, ripped and faded blue jeans, with black leather boots. The weather was nice enough to go without a jacket.  
“Why didn’t you say nothin’ about it. At school.” 

Steve glanced at him in surprise, shrugging one shoulder noncommittally. “Why would I?”

Billy grunted in response, like he didn't know what to do with that. He took a long, drawn out drag, and exhaled a smoke column from parted lips. Then, “Look, I just got shit to say to you. That’s all.” He mumbled to the sky. So low Steve had some trouble hearing him. 

He was quiet for a moment, to let Billy keep talking more, say what he had to say or whatever, but he didn’t say anything else. Steve chewed on his lip for a second, then took the cigarette from behind his ear to slip it, unlit, into his lips. Mouthing around it instead of actually smoking it. It was weird sitting at The Ivy and not smoking or drinking on school grounds, like he usually did with Tommy and Carol what seemed like ages ago. The yellow cigarette filter between his lips was a comfort, like muscle memory. 

“Yeah? Well…what did you want to say?” 

Steve felt like he was on uneven ground. This was unfamiliar territory with the other guy. Billy didn’t TALK to Steve. Not really. Not about anything that counted.

Billy was silent for a while longer, just breathing in nicotine and nudging ash from the tip of his cigarette. 

“What’re you listening to?” Billy finally said, avoiding Steve’s question like Billy hadn’t been the one to bring it up in the first place.

Steve glanced down at his Walkman, still braced between his fingers and thumbs – Billy reached out to forcefully unloop the headphones, audibly playing _‘This Charming Man,’_ from around Steve’s neck. Steve shivered a little when those calloused, rough fingertips brushed soft skin and the fine baby hairs at his nape.

Billy popped the yellow foam ear-pads over his own ears, sucking on the filter of his Marlboro, eyes dropping down to the ground. Growing focused on the music.

“The Smiths.” Steve sighed, expecting some kind of backlash to that. The cord of the headphones connected them from hand to head like a yellow ribbon. 

Billy hummed in a noncommittal fashion, and pushed one of the phones off of his ear – the one closest to Steve. Steve could just barely hear the tinny echo of the song. They were both leaning forward now, away from the wall, and Billy had looped his arms around his knees – hands grasped between them.  
Steve was just holding onto the Walkman II. 

“Didn’t know you were so into music, Harrington. Big expensive record collection, cassettes…Walkman. The Smiths ain’t bad, I guess. You record this?”

Steve nodded, giving Billy a funny look, nose a little scrunched up. Like he was looking at a stranger speaking Greek. He adjusted his classic Nike’s against the grass. "Yeah. I got a new jambox for Christmas with two tape slots." 

“Of course you did, Richie Rich. Just didn't take you for much more than a sissy jock bitch. Mystery wrapped in an enigma, that’s you.” Billy snorted a nose-full of smoke out. 

“Uh, thanks...I guess?” Steve didn’t know what an enigma was. Giving Billy a blank look.

“Winston Churchill?” Billy offered, like it was some obvious reference. 

Steve shook his head. He still didn’t get it. Billy moved on.

“Look, Harrington. Let’s make this short and sweet, then we can move on with our damn lives.” Billy took a deep breath and snubbed the cigarette out on the grass, rubbing it back and forth a few times for good measure before he flicked the filter stub into the mess of ivy. 

He barreled on with the next sentence like it was costing him, but he was determined to get it all out in one go. 

“Wanted to tell you I was…look, I didn’t mean to fuck up your stupid fuckin’ face last fall, _EVEN_ if you were askin' for it. Then uh, again. Last weekend. Alright?” 

Steve squinted. Was that like…saying sorry? Was that an apology? That was kind of like saying ‘sorry, but…’ – it wasn’t a real apology. Was it? It sort of resembled one, though. But he’d take what he could get. After all, he’d never expected anything close to those words to come out of Billy’s mouth. Ever. 

Billy’s fingers tightened around each other. “I wasn’t on your ass about last weekend...” He muttered, a sour expression on his face. “You helped me out, Harrington. Then you didn’t run your damn mouth off after.”  
Billy glanced away to his left, in the opposite direction of Steve. “So. Thanks.” He bit out the words like they tasted bad on his tongue, and every word sounded like a threat. "Are we _clear_?"

It took Steve a long time to realize he was just sitting there, gaping at the side of Billy’s head, ogling him like he’d grown a second head, his mouth literally hanging open a little. What the?

Billy glanced at him once with an annoyed look, tone aggressive when he asked, “You tryin’ to catch flies or what, Harrington?” 

Steve’s mouth snapped closed, then open, then closed again. A very confused fish on land. Trying to find words. “Huh?” 

Billy jabbed a sharp finger at him, pulling the headphones down onto his neck as he glared at Steve. Voice a low growl. “Don’t you think I’m repeating it.” 

“Uh, no, yeah, okay. Nope.” Steve nodded dumbly. “Erm. Thanks. For...yeah.” 

Billy scowled and tugged the headphones completely off, pushing them back at Steve. 

Steve accepted them, clicking off the Walkman with the press of a button.  
When he’d heard Billy apologize to Ms. Byers about breaking her dish, he’d been somewhat shocked – Billy didn’t exactly seem to be the apologizing sort, even in that roundabout way, righteous in everything that he did. RIGHT about everything, and Steve most certainly hadn’t expected him to sort of say sorry. Not to him.

He was certain that Billy had maintained that he had been in the right during that entire shit show, protecting his sister from Lucas, some backwoods kids, and Steve - something stupid like that.

They both sat in awkward silence for a few minutes, Steve fidgeting around with his wire headphones, and wondering what to say. The silence was stifling, loaded with Billy's words, weighing down on Steve's shoulders like a physical weight. He just had no idea what to say now. He was in the Twilight Zone.

Then Billy licked his palm and clapped him on the cheek like a fucking lunatic. 

Steve gasped and fell to the side, swiping at his wet cheek, glaring at Billy as he landed on one elbow. 

“What the – euh, _gross!_ ” Steve scrubbing at his cheek with his shoulder, working to right himself.

Billy leered at him with bright white canines. “Still can’t handle it, huh?” 

“Handle you? _No._ ” Steve rolled his eyes, trying to use the fabric of his short sleeve, striped blue polo to mop up the fucking spit. So gross.  
“Jesus, you're _disgusting_ , Hargrove, you’re worse than those little shit heads with their spit shakes. Ugh.” 

Billy shrugged, clearly preening.  
“Damn right you can’t handle me. And what's wrong with swapping a little spit, huh?” He slapped Steve on the shoulder for real this time. He spit on the ground farther away in the grass, as if the prove some kind of a point.

Steve laughed at that. "Eat shit."

Billy Hargrove had just APOLOGIZED. And THANKED him. Sort of. And maybe talked about swapping spit.

It really was like they’d gotten sucked into the Twilight Zone or something, which, after The Upside Down, didn’t seem like such a far out thing anymore.

But there was one more thing on Steve's mind...“But hey so, that thing with Nancy – “ Steve started, wanting to clear up that last bit.

But Billy cut him off. Ripping up bits of grass by the roots at his feet, like he had nothing better to do. 

“What, you that worried about being a real man, King Steve?” Billy sneered. 

Steve frowned and opened his mouth again to continue, but Billy just kept going when he caught Steve’s closed off expression, rolling his ocean blue eyes all the way around. 

“What's your damage? Look, I don’t want to bump nasties with your little valley-girl joanie.” Billy sighed like it was obvious. “She’s not my type, Harrington. There, you happy?”

Steve glanced over at him from beneath his dark lashes, as if that could hide the direction of his gaze. Billy's type was probably busty blondes, he imagined. 'Bumping nasties' with those California type bronzed girls, surfer chicks. Or maybe like Becky at the party snapping her Bubble Yum, the girl who had clearly wanted to bone Billy if he hadn't been throwing up his guts. And he wanted to object that Nancy wasn't a valley-girl joanie, because Christ, she really wasn't with a gun in her hand or crawling through portals, but from the outside? Steve winced.

“Uh, then what was all that shit you were saying? In the showers.” 

“Look, I just don’t get you.” Billy ripped up more grass, a fistful this time.  
“I don’t see why you ain’t pissed. Why do you eat with them at lunch? It’s fucked up, that’s what it is. That isn’t normal, Harrington. Just trying to make you see that.” Billy waved at his own eyes, like sight was the problem. 

“Look, not a lot in my life is _NORMAL,_ and I don’t need you to tell me that. And quit it, what’d the grass ever do to you?” Steve sighed all dramatic, rolling his eyes. “I just want to be friends with them, okay? She can make her own choices.” 

“Why don’t you _HATE_ them? Hate her, or her little boy toy? You should at least hate her. You sure you aren’t bottling shit up? That ain’t healthy. Express, don’t repress, Harrington.” Billy gave him that shit eating grin.

“I just don’t, and don’t tell me who I should or shouldn’t hate. I don’t really _HATE_ anyone, I guess. But it’s still up to me. Just don’t pull that again, alright? It pisses me off.” Steve frowned, shoving the cassette player and headphones into his backpack next to the crumpled up note from Billy with the neat handwriting. 

“And I’m not bottling up anything. If that’s the case though, you’ve gotta be the healthiest person I know.” He’d never seen anyone express their emotions like Billy did. Particularly by taking out his anger on unsuspecting victims. People, trees, brick walls, lamp posts.

"You don't hate anyone, huh?" Billy snorted, and kept tearing chunks of the grass up, even more fiercely, as if Steve telling him _NOT_ to do something made him do it _MORE_. Asshole. Those active hands only stilled when Steve suddenly reached out, unthinkingly, to put a hand over Billy’s, stopping it in the act. Steve drew his hand back instantly.

“Look, I’ve gotta go. I need to pick the kids up at their club.” He looped the strap of his backpack over his elbow, then onto his back as he stood up.  
“I guess – well, thanks for meeting me. And for the talk. You could just ask me next time.”

Billy brushed grass from his palms, fingertips stained green with the spring roots, and stood up alongside him. Unfolding like a cat, and hitching his faded jeans up on his hips as he made that lazy smile over at Steve, eyes hooded. 

“Next time? There won’t be one. I’ve got nothin’ else to say to you, and I don’t owe you shit.” Billy smirked a little. “Yeah, I got pick up duty, too. And whatever, Harrington. It is what it is. Forget about it.” 

Billy reached out with his Zippo, snapping it on with a flick of his wrist. Steve blinked down at him, the unlit cigarette still bobbing at his lips. He leaned forward, hesitant, as he steadied the cig between two fingers. Moving towards the flame hovering between them. 

He breathed in to get the fire going, exhaling through his nose. “Thanks.” 

Billy nodded and pocketed the lighter before turning away to start walking towards the parking lot. Sliding his gold aviators on, and popping a stick of Big Red gum in his mouth as he went. Steve put his shades back on, too, following after Billy as they walked into the fading, golden afternoon light. Lagging a little with his head back as he smoked, the other hand in his pocket, eyes on Billy's retreating back – gaze dropping a little low as they both made their ways back to their respective cars. How did he walk with his jeans that tight? Honestly.

“Later, Hargrove.” Steve didn’t get a reply, which made him think about Billy saying there wouldn’t be a next time. 

Billy just gave a little sarcastic two-fingered salute before he climbed all long limbed into his Camaro. When he roared away, it was with the signature sound of an overzealous engine with Billy at the wheel, _Bad Company_ blaring from the speakers like thunder.


	10. I might have had a few shots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up that there's some religious content due to Easter, not all of it positive - please avoid if that makes you uncomfortable
> 
> April 7th, 1985

It was Easter Sunday, a few days after Billy had last met Harrington outside of the school. Easter Sunday was a serious Christian holiday in the Hargrove household, the day Jesus came back from the dead or whatever to save them all from their sins - and Neil was a practiced Christian in name only. 

Neil liked to dress up and pretend that they were this perfect family. So they spent the morning in Neil’s church for two hours, Billy in his worn, secondhand dark navy blue suit with a green tie Susan had picked out to match Maxine’s shiny new dress - a tie which he wanted to set on fire in a trash can, while he was sandwiched there between his father and Maxine. 

Sometimes he wondered if forcing Billy to tag along with them to Neil’s protestant church was an extra ‘fuck you’ from Neil to Billy’s mom, with her Catholic pendant for the Virgin Mary hanging around his neck. Making him dress up in a suit like some damn dancing monkey. 

But Billy…? Billy, he didn’t believe in anything anymore. No higher power. Nothing. There wasn’t anyone out there, Saints, Jesus, God or otherwise. 

Maxine was fussing with the hymnbook as the pastor carried on about sin and damnation and also about renewal and rejoicing. About things that were unnatural. About how to save people, how Jesus had wanted to save them all. Every so often, Billy felt Neil’s flat, dark eyes flick over to him at words like ‘salvation,’ or ‘hellfire,’ twitching his trimmed, oiled mustache.  
Like he’d smelled something foul on the air besides plain paraffin wax and the wood oil from the pews. 

Billy drummed his fingers on the thigh of his dress pants, glancing down at Maxine as she kept twisting the small hymnbook around in her hands. 

“Cut it _out_ , Maxine.” Billy hissed at her. 

She glared up at him with those fierce blue eyes, her hands going still. _“Make me.”_ She whispered back.

Neil glanced at them sharply. They both went still and looked forward in unison. She shoved the hymnbook back into the wooden slot holder on the back of the next pew. Neil wrapped an arm around Billy’s shoulder, making the boy go rigid in his seat, that too-dry hand at the nape of his neck where Billy’s hair had been oiled and pulled back into a ponytail – like a fond fatherly gesture. 

But he squeezed there, just around the vertebrae, once, _HARD,_ muttering ‘ _behave._ ’ The pastor’s words went fuzzy and the world tilted. Breath stilled in Billy's lungs. Even here he wasn't safe. Then Neil’s arm dropped and Billy kept staring at the podium like nothing had happened. 

Maxine fidgeted against Billy’s right side as she bit her lip, side-eyeing her step-brother, her fluffy skirt - full with crinoline - poofing against his thigh. Wearing those beat up chucks and tube socks that she’d refused to take off – even with a dress on. 

Billy’d been up at 4 in the morning last week scrubbing the blood from Maxine’s stupid Easter dress. His blood. That dress was brand new, dotted with forest green flowers, and at first he’d hid it so Susan wouldn’t start sniffing around until he had time to clean it. 

Maxine hadn’t really understood at first, why she couldn’t just go to her mom about it and ask her to clean it. Billy’d been hard pressed to explain that if she did, it would come around and bite him on the ass – because it was Billy’s fault that the dress had been ruined. Just by _BLEEDING._

Maxine had already learned, it was always Billy’s fault. She’d proved that by what she’d said in the back of Harrington’s car. And now, she knew how Neil was. She'd seen it first hand, even if it was only the aftermath. No matter how long Billy'd tried to keep it from her, or Neil had for that matter.

And Billy knew how to get blood out of clothes. He knew that real well. So he’d gotten up at the ass crack of dawn, before even Neil was up, using club soda, icy water, and elbow grease with a tinge of desperation until the water ran clear, not pink, and his fingers were bright and numb with cold. 

But the dress was paper white around the flowers and you could still see halos of red no matter how hard he tried. But once it was dry, unless you were looking really up close – you couldn’t tell. 

This was one of the first years Maxine hadn’t been subjected to Sunday school, and she was finally old enough to sit with the big people crowd and the family. 

So they sat there in the lavish church on the pew in bright green flowers reminiscent of blood and the matching tie, neither one able to contain themselves well, chucks and scuffed dress shoes tapping, waiting for it to be over. Billy trying to reign his pounding heart in. 

 

\--------------------------

 

“Ugh _finally,_ ” Maxine had exclaimed, throwing herself dramatically face down onto the couch like she was face planting from exhaustion.

Billy’s dad was in the back room, and Billy wondered if she’d still be mouthing off if the man was out in the living room. Susan was clattering around in the kitchen getting the lamb ready for dinner, and Billy wondered if it’d be like last year when she burnt the shit out of it, blackened with rosemary on it like bits of charcoal. 

Billy sighed and collapsed into the armchair by the couch, and he really wanted to leave, to go anywhere, but neither of them could because it was Easter. Neil’s rules.

“I just wanna go to the Arcade.” Maxine mumbled into the couch cushion. 

“They even open today?” Billy cracked one eye open as he glanced over at her. 

She shrugged, still face down on the couch, her red hair spilling over the edge like a waterfall, her chucks hanging over the sofa arm. One arm lolling to the floor.  
“ _NO!_ ” Maxine cried like her life was ending or something.

Billy rolled his eyes. He loosened the choking tie around his neck as he stood, walking past the couch toward the kitchen – thankful his pops was in their bedroom, probably getting changed out of his suit. 

Susan was still in her Sunday best, a big, long pink dress with big faux pearl earrings, her heels tapping on the kitchen floor as she busied herself with putting a hunk of lamb into a deep roasting dish. Maxine usually complained that redheads shouldn’t wear pink, especially when her mom tried to buy it for her, but Susan didn’t seem to care a lick about that. Loved pink everything.

Billy worked at taking off his tie, watching the woman’s bent back for a second, her shoulders hunched over her work. 

There were creepy little ceramic rabbit figurines holding bundles of carrots, and Easter eggs, and fluffy yellow stuffed chicks with black button eyes sitting on a doily in the middle of the kitchen table. The center piece a paper chick in a huge honeycomb egg. 

Maxine’s Easter basket was still sitting on the tabletop – full of candies and green paper Easter straw, jellybeans and chocolate eggs and a white-chocolate rabbit with a tie made of ribbon candy. 

Billy scowled at the violently cute display, then glanced at the oven, which had too high of a temperature for roasting lamb. “You need help, Susan?” He asked after an internal battle.

Susan twitched in front of the stove, like he’d hit her or something, looking over her shoulder at him like she hadn’t expected him to know English, let alone to talk to her. 

She patted her red locks, her bangs extra puffy today, then wrapped her fingers up into the yellow apron that was around her trim waist. Nervous-like. Watching him like you might watch a rabid dog that was approaching, frothing at the mouth.

Billy’s mouth dug into a frown at her, crossing his arms over his chest, the green tie dangling from a fist. 

“Oh no, Billy. I’m fine, but - thank, you.” Susan said after a moment, smoothing her palms over her sunny apron now, like she was getting non-existent wrinkles out of it, looking down. 

“What the fuck ever.” Billy shrugged, ignoring the affronted sound she made at his language. 

He stole a chocolate egg from Maxine’s stuffed Easter basket when Susan’s back was turned again. Twisting on the heel of his scuffed up dress shoes, he strode down the hallway to his room, slamming it a little on the hinges, making the wall shake. That’s what he got for asking her if she needed help, he supposed. “Bitch.” He snarled at the empty room. 

Billy sank down onto his bed after putting his dangle spike earring back in, glancing at his dresser – which sat at a funny angle since he’d been thrown into it. He unwrapped the foil before he popped the whole chocolate creme egg into his mouth. Crumpling the foil in his fist before opening his brown tape case, carrying it by the handle from his bookshelf to his bed to flip through tapes. 

He settled on his _Kiss ‘Lick it Up’_ cassette, snapping it in his piece of shit tape player, thinking about Harrington’s new jambox and thinking that was pretty fuckin’ sick that it had two slots. He’d like to see it. He thought, again, of their bizarre conversation the other day outside the school. 

After his conversation with Joyce, he'd felt…pressured, maybe, or ‘responsible’ to say something to the guy. Especially after Harrington had helped him, even when he hadn’t needed to. Because he really _HADN’T_ meant to destroy Harrington’s face like he had. And maybe it had been kinda fucked up of him. 

And it had been…oddly relaxing, sitting in the deep blue of the shade, stealing Harrington’s jams to listen to, even if the guy’s music taste wasn’t the greatest. It seemed to vary, honestly. Billy’d introduce him to some real music, he thought, if they ever saw each other again outside of school. Not that he wanted to hang out. The guy just needed help. At least The Smiths were okay. 

And it was sorta fuckin' funny as hell that Harrington had gotten so flustered over Billy all week – thought he’d been mad or some shit. Billy didn’t know. He just liked to push Harrington. Look for his limits. And usually, when he pushed him just far enough, he might get a glimpse of that King Steve that he craved seeing. Had been for a long time before the Byers’ place.

And Billy just, he didn’t know why he gave Harrington so much shit otherwise. Just to get a reaction out of him, he guessed. It was funny as hell, watching him slowly get worked up as Billy fired spitwads at his huge head. 

Trying valiantly to tamp it down, act like he wasn’t offended or worked up, even if Billy could see that fire in him. Trapped. As trapped as Harrington was at a lunch table with his Joanie and her boy Byers, Billy thought. 

Billy sighed as he shrugged his suit jacket off, throwing it on the floor, toeing off his worn out shoes next to the pile of fabric before he lay back on his bed. Tugging the tie from his hair so that his oiled curls spread out over his pillow, eyes closed. The taste of the Cadbury Creme Egg was still on his tongue, breathing slow through his nose. 

The back of his neck ached a little like a bruise, but he ignored it, with the music in his ears, and he was drawing out a crushed pack of smokes and his Zippo to light up a cigarette. Laying flat on his bed, legs crossed at his socked ankles as he just smoked and replaced the taste of the chocolate with tar on his tongue, dark lashes pressed closed. He turned his thoughts away from Harrington to the chocolate egg.

And for a while, he wasn’t thinking about anything, until he was, and he was thinking about the last time he got an Easter basket. Years ago.

Now, the entire concept seemed ridiculous – that shit was for little kids, ones that still believed in the Easter Bunny and Santa or whatever the fuck. Stupid little shit heads like Maxine. 

He reached over to turn his music up louder, licking dry lips, working at unbuttoning about half of his dress-shirt buttons until he was more comfortable – felt like he could finally breathe. 

Billy’s mom had always gotten him an Easter basket when he was little, pretending that the Easter bunny had just been there – that he’d said to say hello to Billy, but he was busy visiting other boys and girls, so he couldn’t stay to chat. 

Billy snorted out a breath of smoke at the thought. His mom was such a dork. His chest tightened a bit at the thought. She _HAD BEEN_ such a dork. 

He hated Easter. He hated the excuse Neil needed to act like a good Christian a few times a year. But his mom, she’d loved going to their Catholic church for Easter mass out in Oceanside, dressing Billy up in his Sunday best, sweeping his curls back into a pony tail – he’d had it long for a while now, even if the shorter top was new for him, all business in the front now, party in the back. 

She’d loved his curls too much to want to cut them, and Neil had always been pissed about it because he said it made Billy look too much like a girl. But she’d thought they were so pretty. It was rare he’d had hair shorter than ear length, except for right after she’d died. Then Neil’d buzzed it into a military crew cut like some kind of revenge. Gilded curls piling up in their bathroom sink. And Billy hadn’t cried during it. He hadn’t. 

Billy reached up to finger the catholic pendant at his chest, which had been tucked under his shirt – he rubbed it between his thumb and his forefinger. He wasn’t religious. Not anymore, at least. But she was. She'd given him her pendant of the Virgin Mary, to watch out for him, to protect him - and it hadn't worked. He didn’t believe in that shit, because no one was looking out for him, and there was no golden light on the other side – there would be only a sweet, welcome darkness after death. 

Who could bear the thought of life continuing after death, when it would finally be over?  
Billy’s brow crinkled with the thought, like it physically pained him, taking another drag from his cigarette. 

He slid his flask out from beneath the mattress to take a few burning shots of alcohol he kept there for emergencies. He used it a lot. It was sharp enough to burn down his throat in that good way.

There was a hammering on his door, knocking him out of his thoughts, and Billy’s bright blue eyes snapped open as he half sat up – one leg dropping off the bed to brace a foot on the floor, instantly on alert. 

“Yeah?” He called warily. 

“You turn that noise off, boy!” Neil shouted through the door, like he didn’t want to open it to deal with Billy’s face. “And then you come help your sister.”

Billy snarled down at his lap. Of course he had to fuckin’ help the little shitheel. He’d only been with her all damn day in a too-hot church, and now he had to do more shit with her? Christ. Billy snapped off his tape player. 

“With what, sir?” He called warily. 

“She’s dying eggs.” Neil said in this flat voice, like that was some kind of an explanation. Muffled through the door. 

Billy wanted to snap back, ask why the fuck she was dying eggs ON Easter? Why couldn’t she do it her damn self? Why did Billy have to help her when he’d already done his family time or whatever at church? 

“Yessir.” Billy called back, his room too silent now with the music off, and he felt on edge once more. 

He stood, still in his dress slacks and a half unbuttoned dress shirt, rolled up to his elbows. He ran a hand through his oiled locks, spreading them out over his shoulders, before he left the relative safety of his room. Walking on eggshells into the kitchen in white socks.

Neil was sitting on the couch by the time he got out there, the Sunday paper open in front of him as he read, rustling, and Susan was cutting potatoes. Maxine was at the kitchen table, gnashing away on some jellybeans as she fucked around with some white, hard-boiled eggs.

Billy eyed her like it was an accusation, because why the fuck did she need help? She wasn’t two, she could dye some fuckin’ eggs on her own.

But he couldn’t say no to his old man or he’d have more than a sore neck from this morning. Respect and responsibility, and somehow Maxine had become his responsibility.

Billy sprawled into the chair next to her, slouching in his seat, snuffing his cigarette stub out in the ashtray on the table. 

“What the fuck you need help with?” He growled at her. 

“Don’t speak to your sister that way.” Neil ordered from the living room, clearly listening with rapt attention, even with the newspaper in his face. 

Billy slid down in his seat further, feeling scrutinized as he glared at her like he was gonna string her up with her stupid hair. Like it was all her fault.

He wasn’t in the fuckin’ mood for this shit. 

Billy lowered his voice when he spoke to Maxine next, trying to pitch it low enough his dad couldn’t hear. “ What the fuck is it? It ain’t rocket science, Maxine. What’s the matter with you?” 

She jutted out her chin at him, her lips pursing as she narrowed those sharp blue eyes at him. “Jesus, I didn’t even WANT your help!” She snapped back. 

“Maxy! It’s Easter!” Susan huffed from the counter. “Don’t take His name in vain, honestly.” 

Maxine made a stink face and rolled the egg around between her palms, eyeing Billy with that sour expression. Maxine never used to exclaim _‘Jesus!’_ until recently. He wondered where she picked it up. Shitbird. 

Billy scowled right back at her as they stared each other down like they were on some kind of battlefield at the kitchen table with a bowl full of eggs between them. 

“I know how to dye _EGGS!_ ” Maxine insisted, scowling. “I’m not an _IDIOT,_ Billy!”

Billy snorted. “Coulda fooled me.” 

She wrinkled her nose when she caught his breath as he leaned in close, inspecting the eggs like they were spoiled.

“Were you drinking in there? You stink. Ugh. There’s just this one thing I can’t do, but I’m supposed to bring eggs over to Mike’s tomorrow ‘cause they’re having an egg hunt.” 

Maxine popped another candy in her mouth.  
She puckered her lips like she’d eaten something sour, clicking it behind her teeth, and she looked like she was having a seizure or some shit.  
Billy choked down a laugh at the look. 

Billy shrugged. “I might have had a few shots. Why tomorrow? What you eating?” 

“’cause we are. ‘s a Warhead.” Maxine hissed around the candy, her face all messed up. 

Billy leaned forward in interest, shoving candy aside with the Easter straw, burrowing through piles of jellybeans.

“Woah hey what, you got Warheads?” 

“Hey that’s mine!” 

“Learn to share, _MAXINE_.” He snatched a few of the individually wrapped Warheads from the basket, popping one into his mouth.  
“Consider it payment for helping you with your dumbass eggs.”

Susan looked over her shoulder at him, shaking a potato at him like she was gonna say something about his language, but then she went pale, eyes a little wide, and she turned back around. 

Billy sucked on the Apple Warhead like green fire on his tongue, showing no expression. 

Maxine ogled him. “How are you doing that?” 

“Doing what?” 

“I dunno! You’re not dying!” 

“Not a little _girl_ like you, Maxine.”  
Billy grinned all sharp around the insane hard candy, liking the way it burned through his tongue like acid. 

“I forgot you liked sour candy.” Maxine looked at him like an alien or something. 

Billy shrugged.  
“Just show me what you want with your eggs or whatever, then I’m going back in my room. Let’s get it over with. Where’s the dye?” Billy nodded towards the mixing bowl of eggs, eyes roving the table in search of the colors in vinegar, but found nothing. 

“Well okay I _TOLD_ you I could do the dye, but – “ 

“But what?” 

“Well Neil said that the dye would be too messy, so we got these wraps that go around the eggs.” She pushed a package towards him like an explanation. 

Billy snatched it up, studying it. It said ‘Dinosaur Instant Egg Art,’ the kind with the wraps that go around the eggs – the cheap and easy way of doing it. The pansy way. Billy scowled down at the box. 

“And what, you can’t do this shit? This is baby stuff, Maxine.”

“The instructions say you have to have an adult when you put the eggs in the water with the wraps. And mom won’t let me, says it’s too dangerous.” She rolled her eyes at how stupid she obviously thought THAT was.  
“But I could totally do it myself!!”

Billy grunted. Susan was a fuckin’ worry wart. Maxine _COULD_ do this. It was pointless to ask Billy to do it. Maxine wasn’t a moron (debatable) and she wasn’t five anymore.

“But I need them. A friend of Mike’s hasn’t had an egg hunt before, so we’re all hiding them for her to find tomorrow.” Maxine said begrudgingly. “And Mom’s making dinner, so Neil said you’d do it.”

Billy rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, praying to a god he didn’t believe in for patience. 

“Of course he did.” He muttered under his breath. Of _COURSE_ his dad had volunteered Billy’s services. Then louder, “Fine. Get me a goddamn beer outta the fridge, Maxine.” 

The sooner he could finish the sooner he could be done. 

Susan had vacated the kitchen to leave them to the stove, settling with Neil on the couch – the sounds of Matlock coming from the other room. 

The two step-siblings spent a while sliding little t-rex, pterodactyl and stegosaurus wraps onto each egg, then Billy had the ‘responsibility’ of balancing each egg in a teaspoon – and lowering it into a pan of boiling water until the wraps sucked tight onto the egg surfaces. 

Maxine helped by moving the cooled eggs out of the egg holders once he was done with each dinosaur egg. Billy spent the entire time glaring down into the boiling water, the other hand holding his cigarette as he smoked like a chimney. 

Occasionally, when he wasn’t sucking on a Warhead, he’d sip from a beer on the counter top that he’d made Maxine get out of the fridge for him, balancing it around the cig. He was on his third one at this point. 

“You mention this to anyone and I’ll kill you.” Billy told Maxine in a low voice once Susan was out of the kitchen. 

“Like I’d want anyone to know I have to actually _DO_ things with you.” Maxine sounded disgusted at the prospect.

“You and me both.” 

It smelled like the lamb was burning. Smoke creeping out from the corners of the oven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note: Joanie was 80's slang for a square, un-cool girl based off of Joanie from Happy days
> 
> 80's references: https://lemonlovely.tumblr.com/post/174496440306/10-80s-referencesvisuals-list


	11. What's with the box?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 9th, 1985

The tail of end of Easter Sunday immediately led into Spring Break for Hawkins, Indiana and students. A week of pure bliss, of doing nothing, of not worrying about papers or homework or reading assignments until the next Sunday – the day before anything was due, when everyone would cram or write their essay at 10 PM the night of. But it was only Tuesday, and break had just begun.

Steve honestly hadn’t planned on leaving the house after helping out at Mike Wheeler’s house for the Easter Egg hunt they were hosting, on Easter Monday so that the kids would all be free from family obligations.

His plans had pretty much revolved around staying inside, much like a vampire, shying away from the light in nothing but his boxers, playing Super Mario Bros and Duck Hunt on the Nintendo from the solace of his own couch. Ordering pepperoni and green pepper pizza, and drinking alone – even if solo booze wasn’t his favorite thing. He was a social drinker.

The day-late, Easter Monday egg hunt on April 8th had been interesting, to say the least. It had been at the Wheeler household, and Steve had been invited because of the kids, but it still felt somewhat awkward being at the house that he’d been to so many times as Nancy’s boyfriend. Where he’d fucked her in her room a couple times in the early hours of the morning, a house he knew well enough to sneak in through her bedroom window like the highly skilled ninja he was.

Steve was aware that usually after a break up, it wasn’t exactly normal to still be hanging around with your ex and her new boy, especially, you know, at her house. With her parents or whatever. Like things were still normal. No. Billy had been especially fond of trying to drive that point home, lately. It was even weirder because Nancy wasn't even HOME.

But thankfully, Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler had spent most of the time inside as the kids hung around in the backyard hiding eggs while Eleven covered her eyes with promises of not using her freaky mind powers to see where they were being hidden. Her back turned, standing there in her baggy plaid shirt over a baby blue, puffy Easter dress and shit-kicker boots.

Steve had lounged around on a lawn chair in his pressed, grey button up polo and khakis with baby Holly – who wasn’t as much of a baby anymore, she was getting to be more of an actual kid, now – outgrowing her toddler phase.  
Steve had hidden some smaller plastic eggs around the space by the lawn chair just for Holly to find. She was wandering around on unsteady legs with her little Easter basket, holding onto Steve’s pinky as he walked alongside her. He was crouched down closer to her level, as her bright eyes stayed on the slowly greening grass, searching for treats.

He’d tucked a single jellybean in each of the eggs for her to eat, and when she found one, she immediately popped it open, scraped out the jellybean with grubby fingers, and chewed on it for a second before continuing her hunt. The now-empty egg safely tucked into her basket.

The kids had all stood back, proud of their work hiding eggs for El, and El had promptly found all of them in record time like it was child’s play. Then, she’d decided that it was her turn to hide eggs – making her group of nerds cover their eyes as Steve watched on, amused.

Despite _The Rules_ , mostly hidden in the woods behind Mike's house, El had made those brightly colored, dyed eggs zip this way and that way through the air, as the gaggle of kids stood around, eyes covered, backs turned. Steve had glanced over his shoulder at the house like a nervous crazy person, all big-eyed, tight lipped, hair big, to make sure none of the adults were watching, but the house was still and silent.

Mrs. Wheeler was taking a bath, and Mr. Wheeler had last been asleep in front of the TV last time Steve saw. Nancy was at the library or she’d have been out here scolding Eleven – which Steve knew he probably should, it was dangerous, but no one was watching.

The kid got to have little to no fun as it was, living her life by Rules.

Eleven had hidden the eggs everywhere, from clumps of grass, to tree branches too far from the ground for the kids to reach, inside a discarded rain spout, under fallen logs, even a couple in a birds nest where eggs belonged. When she’d tried to hide one in Steve’s ACTUAL hair, a T-rex wrapped egg floating ominously next to his head – making Holly giggle - he’d had to draw the line, holding up a single finger with serious eyes and a _‘Woooah, no. Don’t you do it, El. Don’t even try it.’_

But when she looked like a kicked puppy he wilted and apologized, but still refused to have his hair treated like another eggs nest. _'The hair is off limits, kid.'_  
So she'd moved on to greener pastures, saying _'Fine. No fun.'_ flicking around one hand a little as she directed eggs this way and that like she was Merlin on Disney's The Sword in the Stone. As if she was shooing them in the proper directions.

Then she’d laid back on the lawn chair next to Steve’s, this smug little smile on her face as she watched the kids scramble around looking for the eggs. She kept her boots crossed at the ankles, with Band-Aids on her knees, hands folded over the front of her bright baby blue dress, watching the chaos unfold alongside Steve with those impossibly dark eyes. Wiping fresh, bright blood from her nose on the sleeve of her grungy plaid shirt.

There had been kicking and shoving and yelling and laughing and Max had started climbing trees like a pro in her familiar white and green flower dress that looked stained in just the right light, with ghosts of the blood from the weekend Steve had gone to Billy’s house - that, and her tube socks and high top converse. When she landed back on the ground, she jumped down, slamming into the dirt on both feet like some kind of intense pro-wrestler jumping from the ring ropes. A wild grin on her face, red hair a fiery halo, holding the eggs up like gold treasure from Indiana Jones.

The whole thing had been a huge success with both El and the kids, but by the end of it, El had them all under her thumb, a satisfied light in her big dark eyes as she watched the other kids scramble desperately. Her soft smile growing bigger and bigger.

However, the fun and games were over after El had continued commenting on the brightly colored eggs that she clearly liked to moon over, calling them _‘pretty,’_ and asking _‘Egg? Eggo?’_ and Mike told her _‘Yeah! Pretty, right? And you can eat them!’_ and she’d promptly bit into one – hard shell and all – crunching through it, immediately followed by a disgusted face and spitting the neon tie-dye, white, and yellow mess out on the ground, saying _‘BAD.’_

It was no eggo, even though it had the word ‘egg’ in it. Not even close.

She’d been pissy with Mike after that, complaining that _'friends don't lie'_ and sat out on the opportunity to hide more eggs, glaring at him like an accusation. She also flat out refused to try eating another one even after Steve tried peeling one for her, trying to explain the difference. Mike looked like he was gonna cry or some shit for the rest of the day, pouting about it even after El went home with his usual stink-face and yelling at anyone that talked to him.

 

So late the next Tuesday morning, Steve was definitely, finally asleep, with no plans of seeing the kids again so soon - but the _Realistic_ radio the kids had gotten him for Christmas burst into staticy life all the same – a garbled, tinny voice wavering to him over airwaves. Steve snorted from his position on the couch – one bloodshot, chocolate eye cracking open – he’d only been asleep for maybe two hours, with deep, dark gray circles beneath his eyes like sleepless bruises.

The TV was set to a comfortable volume while playing Brady Bunch reruns, and Steve glanced at it blearily – Sam was bringing Alice a ham. Half asleep, Steve glared at the TV like that was what had interrupted his sleep, mumbling ‘She wanted a fuckin’ roast, _SAM_. Stupid.’

Then he grunted and shoved his face down into the pillow that smelled like Billy once, huffing out a sigh, trying to adjust himself for sleep again. Trying to go back to that sweet dark place in his mind that was so hard to reach anymore without creeping, squelching vines invading that quiet space.

But that tinny voice grated through the living room again, up through the base of the couch, and subsequently the cushions beneath Steve’s face.

“ _Steve, come in. This is Dustin, over._ ” Static, then silence.

Steve pushed off of the couch, swiping at his face as he tried to clear his bleary vision, hair standing on end, before reaching over the cushion edge to blindly grab at the walkie talkie he’d tucked under there. He’d left it there as a precaution after Max had had trouble reaching him on the radio before – when Billy’d needed help. Because apparently using the phone was a foreign concept.

He cleared his throat and rolled over onto his back, the afghan tangling around his knobby knees as he lifted the walkie to his mouth. His tongue stuck to the roof of his dry mouth for a second, and he pressed down the Push To Talk button, giving it a second before he said anything.

“Ugh, go ahead.” He blinked blearily, trying to remember the stupid ‘radio etiquette’ Dustin had tried drilling into his head so ‘you won’t sound like a moron, Steve.’  
“Over.” He added as an afterthought, then released the PTT button, eyes slipping closed, a tiny wrinkle of frustration between his furrowed brows.

The big Radio Shack ‘Realistic’ brand walkie grumbled with static for a second before Dustin came through again.  
_“Steve! You still asleep? It’s like noon, my man. Can you come pick me up? I need a ride to Mike’s. Over.”_

Steve made a face and pushed PTT, smooshing the side of his face into the back of the couch as he scratched his soft, bare belly, stretched long over the sofa in only his blue boxers, with the cover of the afghan pooling around his legs. He had some drool on his cheek, and he swiped at it messily, stretching his spine out, arching a little off the couch with a groan.  
Alice was scolding Sam on the TV set about how she’d wanted a roast, not a ham, but of course she’d take it anyway since he’d been so nice to bring it all the way over. Only the best cuts of meat for Alice.

“Yeah ‘m asleep, and you have a bike, shithead. I’m not your chauffeur. What th’ hell. Over.”  
No, he wasn’t a damned chauffeur service, but you wouldn’t think so the way those kids acted.

_“I have something extremely DELICATE with me, Steve. I can’t bring it on my bike. Obviously. Duh. Pleeease? I’ll owe you. Over.”_

“You already owe me for a lot of shit. Over.”

The radio crackled noisily in his ear before it went silent. Steve opened one bleary eye to halfway watch The Brady Bunch while he waited for Dustin to reply. He’d seen every episode only about a million times.

 _“Stand-by. Over.”_ Dustin said.

Steve rolled his eyes. There was another long pause.

“ _Okay, my mom says you can stay for dinner if you drive me. She’s making fried chicken. Over.”_

Steve perked up. Ms. Henderson made the best fuckin’ fried chicken. Hell yes, it was better than KFC.  
“….Fine. What time. Over.”

He could hear the smug triumph in Dustin’s voice when the radio buzzed back at him. _“Sweet! In an hour! You can stay with us for the campaign if you want. Over.”_

Steve sat up slowly, aching, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with one hand as he pressed the pads of his bare feet against the wine colored rug. His head pounded, and Mrs. Brady was saying something to Jan, and he gave a long-suffering sigh before replying. He curled his spine forward, shoving his free hand into his hair, making a fist in it. Bracing his elbow on one knee.

“Yeah, yeah. Alright. An hour, I’ll be there. You owe me. Again. And I dunno, maybe. Over.

“ _Okay cool! You’re the best. See you. Over and out.”_

There was a pause.

_“Say ‘over and out’ Steve, over and out.”_

Steve sighed, still long suffering. “Over and out.”

After turning the radio channel off, he pushed the walkie talkie under the couch again.  
For a second he just sort of sat there like a zombie from City of the Living Dead, staring at the TV but not really taking it in, even though The Brady Bunch was on. He closed his eyes and half felt himself nodding off, chin tilting forward a little as his eyelids lulled, but he had to jerk his head up before he completely fell back asleep sitting up.

He staggered up the staircase to his room to shower and change, leaving his big, welcoming television family to resolve another issue seamlessly.  
After an intense, hot shower – hot enough to burn him into wakefulness - Steve took his time in front of the foggy mirror with his Farrah Fawcette hairspray on damp hair, before fluffing it to just the right fullness with his blow dryer.

The bathroom was still misty, the moisture heavy air thick with the scent of the wheat germ oil and honey scent of his Fabergé Organics products – his hair smelled like a meadow, dammit. And then there was the sharper, woodsy scent of the body wash his mom bought him in Paris – with a tang like cologne.

It looked sunny enough out through his bedroom window to dress in his new, soft, lightweight green jumper with a gray and white stripe across the chest and upper arms in a continuous line, and plain, crisp jeans. He shoved his socked feet into his Cortez Nikes, throwing his Members Only jacket over his arm in case it got colder later, and headed out – barely remembering to turn off The Brady Bunch, and locking up.

When he pulled up in front of The Henderson Residence in his flashy red BMW, drinking a Coke from a glass bottle to try and wake up ( he’d been too rushed for coffee,) he had to stare for a second at Dustin. The kid had his headset thing on, hooked to the mini walkie talkie receiver on his belt, and he was rocking his backpack like usual, with his white, red, and blue trucker cap on that head of boisterous curls, so nothing there was strange.

But he was also holding a huge box, his chin propped over the top of it as he balanced it with both hands, carefully making his way to the car with his precious cargo – his awkward hold making him waddle like a penguin with a fragile egg between it’s feet.  
Steve grinned at the sight, despite the exhaustion that clung to him like a second skin, and he turned the car off as he got out. He left the pop in the cup holder.

Claudia Henderson was standing outside the front door, in a bright purple floral blouse and gray slacks with little loafers, waving with the little paw of the grumpy, fat Siamese cat she was holding in her arms.

“Thank you, Steve! Dusty is so excited!” She called. “You come by later for fried chicken, alright dear? Dinner’s at six.”

Steve waved back as he approached Dustin, not sure if he was technically waving to the cat or to her. “Thanks, Ms. Henderson! I will. I’ll have him home on time.”

She smiled sweetly and bustled back into the house, pressing kisses into the forehead of the cat she’d cradled into her arms like a swaddled baby, asking, “Do you want to watch Jeopardy, Mr. Tews? Yes you do! Yes you do! You know all the answers, don’t you!” The screen door slammed shut as she chuckled and cooed to her cat.

The Siamese had gotten so big since they got him as a kitten last fall, it was wild. He’d been so small before.  
Steve inspected the box that was almost as big as Dustin with a bemused expression, reaching out both hands as if he weren’t sure if he needed help or not.

“You need a hand there, or what? You weren’t kidding, this is not bike friendly. What’s with the box?”

“No. No it is not!” Dustin sighed as he worked on balancing the cardboard box. “And no, just, just help me get it in the backseat!” He huffed. “Man you look tired, what time’d you go to sleep?”

Steve nodded and shrugged, hands dropping back to his sides. “I dunno. Late.” A few hours ago. It had been light out, he knew that much. “And yeah man, sure. But…what is it…exactly?”

He tilted his head, looking down at the box with a hint of apprehension, cocking his hands on his hips.

“It’s my science project, _Steve._ ” Dustin said like it was obvious.

Steve’s apprehension grew with that one statement. Now he carefully held out both hands in a slowing gesture, palms out, his big dark eyes getting a little bigger.

“Uh, science project. Okay. So um. Dustin, is this gonna be like your last science project?” He winced at the memory of it, and having to get his car professionally cleaned and detailed after that entire wonderful experience.

Dustin gave him that famous, cheeky, soft-cheeked Dustin smile over the lip of the box like an adorable chipmunk. His eyes, also, were shaped like little smiles. A perfect picture of innocence.  
“Steve. Would I let that happen twice? I don’t think so. _TRUST_ me.”

Steve raised both eyebrows at him as Dustin bustled forward again. “ _TRUST_ you? Oh that’s rich. It took me a _WEEK_ to finally get the red offa my skin, and two hundred dollars to get the car cleaned.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Do a guy a favor and open the door?” Dustin chirped. “This is heavy as shit, dude.”

Steve’s entire nose wrinkled up as he sidled up adjacent to Dustin, asking as he opened the door, “So you’re telling me it’s _NOT_ a giant volcano that will _NOT_ spew SpagettiOs and red food dye all over the back of my car? Tell me that’s what you’re saying right now.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying!”

“Okay. Okay good.” Steve opened the back door the rest of the way.

Dustin slid the box inside as if it were full of very breakable eggs.  
He actually buckled the damned thing in, gently patting the top of it. Then he closed the door, equally as careful and cautious, and settled into the front seat as Steve made his way around to the driver’s side. He tilted his rear-view mirror to get a better view of the mysterious science project box, before they both buckled up just like the box.

Steve put the Beamer into drive, and pulled away from the curb to head down to Mike’s – avoiding Mirkwood like he usually did, going the long way around.

“So if it’s not a big, _pissed off_ volcano of pasta and food dye, what is it this time?” Steve focused on the road as he drove, fucking with the radio.

“Well it’s for our big spring project in science.” Dustin said as he hugged his backpack against his chest, peering out the window happily as he watched the Hawkins trees zip by the glass, adjusting some of the buttons on his headset with one hand.

He glanced over at Steve with that big grin as he started to pull the Dungeons and Dragons Handbook from his bag. He tapped the front of it.

“I brought this for you as a refresher if you decide to play with us today. I think Mike made sure to factor you into the campaign if you decided to join in.”

“That’s great. Just, just great.” Steve laughed with a hysterical, sleep deprived edge, and hell, why not? He didn’t have any other plans for his spring break. Why not dig his social status even deeper into the cold hard ground and spend his break playing the dragons game with the nerds.

“Did you remember your character sheet?” Dustin asked.

Steve glanced at him guiltily from his spot behind the steering wheel, because no, he had left it on his coffee able amidst text books and a few empty beer cans, half buried under crumpled papers and failed essay attempts.

“Uh, no.” Steve shook his head, making his hair sway as he tried to keep his eyes on the road.

“Don’t even worry. I’ve got your back, Steve-o. I have a copy of it for you.” Dustin smiled all smug, like there was no escape. Like he’d known Steve would forget it.

Steve smiled fondly, laughing a little under his breath as he rolled his window down half way – making his hair wave like a flag as he tilted his head back on the headrest. The spring air ruffled over both of them, smelling like unfamiliar warmth, dusty pollen from the pine trees, and sleepy tulips breaking ground. It smelled like the promise of summer. Dustin rolled his window down, too.

“Of course y’do. Thanks, man. Okay, so spring project – what’d you do for it?”

Dustin perked up at Steve’s interest in his project, as long as it wasn’t going to explode all over Steve’s car. He knew how Dustin loved talking science, and he got ready to have his ear talked off – he wasn’t disappointed.

“Well, okay, are you ready for this?” Dustin was practically bouncing in his seat. “They’re _tadpoles!”_

Both of Steve’s eyebrows arched up as he fiddled with the radio, settling on 92.1, which was mostly pop. _Wham!’s Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go_ was playing, with a beat that matched the sweetness of spring and the rolled down windows letting the air buffet through the car. He looped one arm out of the widow, letting his hand hang, driving one handed.

“Tadpoles.” Steve repeated.

“Tadpoles! Yeah, all different kinds, I’m studying their growth patterns and – “

“Where’d you get tadpoles?”

“Oh, from Henry – this guy that works at the Pet Shop on Main. He’s awesome. He keeps pet snakes, and he has a totally tubular python named Tricia. He was able to order me different breeds, so I can compare their growth cycles and the differences in their aging process and feeding habits.”

“So it’s a bunch of frogs?”

“Well not _yet,_ Steve. They will be, but they’re still just pollywogs now. They’re in the larval stage of amphibians, so they’re not really _FROGS_ frogs yet.”

Steve felt a frown creeping over his mouth. “So…like _D'Art_?” He asked skeptically. “Also, is that thing sealed? I don’t want pond water getting in the car.”

Dustin rolled his eyes like Steve was dumb. “It’s not pond water, Steve, it’s just dechlorinated _tap water_ , Christ, don’t worry so much! And they’re in critter keepers. Critter keepers don’t leak, they’re water tight!”

Steve hummed in disbelief, unsure of that. “If you say so. And _Jesus,_ I know what tadpoles are.” Steve grumped a little. “We used to catch them over in the pond at Ashway Park.”

“There are tadpoles there?!” Dustin twisted around in his seat to stare back at the cardboard box, and Steve realized he could hear the faint slosh of water, trying not to allow it to make him nervous.

“Uh, I dunno, there used to be when we were kids. We usually found them in the summer.”

“Who’d you catch them with? Did you keep them as pets? What were their names? What kind of tank did you keep them in? What breed of frog?”

“Uh…”

Steve drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he turned down Maple towards Mike’s. He wondered what Mrs. Wheeler thought about having the gaggle of hellion kids over two days in a row. She probably wasn’t thrilled, if he were to guess correctly.

He was squinting when he said, “With Tommy H. and a couple of our other friends, back in Elementary School. We didn’t keep ‘em, we just threw them back.” He frowned a little. “Sometimes Tommy’d use them to go fishing with, though.”

He cringed at the thought – it had made him sick, even as a kid – it was why he’d stopped going tadpole hunting with Tommy. Sure, people used worms and guppies and stuff. Steve wasn't that sure. He'd never been allowed to go fishing by his parents, was never given a pole, even as a kid. It was a 'filthy business' according to his mother. Hell, if she'd known about him being at the park in the pond like some 'lowlife roughneck', that wouldn't have been allowed either. 

But there was just something about it. He couldn’t bear to watch Tommy twist a fishhook into their soft tails, with their big eyes, and the way Tommy watched them squirm in delight. It was disgusting. Wrong. The way he got pleasure out of doing it, that's what Steve hadn't been able to handle.

Steve had yelled at him about it once and stomped off, throwing his plastic bucket down on the ground, and they never went to the park again after that. At least not for tadpoles or whatever. They’d returned when they were older to smoke weed on the swing sets at two in the morning a couple times. More than a couple times. Tommy had sneered at him about 'running away' because he was just a little pussy.

Dustin glanced over at him with a shocked expression on his face, his mouth dropping open in an almost comical O, gasping, “He _WHAT?”_

Steve sighed. “Yeah, I know. It was sorta fucked up.”

“What an _ASSHOLE.”_

“He really, really is. Not a lot has changed there. I dunno why I was friends with him for so long. Anyways, uh, so lizards, pollywogs, whatever – is this about D'Art, or what? You’re _SURE_ they are all just… _tadpoles_. Right?”

He tried not to glance over at the cardboard box which was feeling more and more ominous the more he thought about it – the last time Dustin had a _‘pollywog’_ it really hadn’t turned out so great.

Steve pulled up in front of Mike’s house, throwing the Beamer into park as Dustin started to unbuckle, and they rolled up their windows. The idea of anything that similar to D'Art made his skin crawl – even if that stupid demodog had kind of saved their asses in the end of it all by the grace of Dustin’s unique pollywog-rearing skills and candy bars. Even if he’d handled plenty of cute little tadpoles, cupped in his hands as a kid in a pool of slimy water, the summer sun hot on the back of his neck and calves, ankle deep in pond scum.

There was a collection of bikes tossed down in the yard against the bushes, but no skateboard. Steve wondered if Billy had dropped Max off, or maybe the board was downstairs.

“And that dude was your _BEST friend_?” Dustin seemed skeptical “Obviously you’re moving up in the world with your choice of best friends.” He nodded wisely, clearly meaning himself.

Steve snorted, tilting his chin down to hide a smile.

“And well, I mean, it’s not _NOT_ about D'Art - rest in peace, lil' buddy. ” Dustin said after a second, whispering the last part, and shifting in his seat like a squirmy five year old put on the spot. Called out. “Of course I’m sure. I _ORDERED_ them, from a professional source. I didn’t find one in a trashcan. Y’know, _this_ time.”

Steve climbed out of the car, locking it behind him as he shoved his hands in his pockets – he’d left his jacket in the back of the car, forgotten in the warm spring air.

“ Oh yeah, not THIS time. And...he was.” Steve admitted to the ‘best friend’ comment with a bob of his head and a rustle of his shoulders before he looped around the car to help Dustin with the box.  
“Just let me help you carry it, okay? And what are you hoping to prove with the project? With D'Art?”

“Well in school, it’s just about the tadpole metamorphosis phases. But for my super SECRET undercover project, I’m comparing their amphibian life cycles with the notes I kept about D'Art’s development to see how alike their metamorphoses are with you-know-what. It could be really useful in our understanding about – _shit shit shit!”_ Dustin exclaimed.

Steve was helping him pull the box from the car, and as it tilted, the unmistakable stain of water began to darken the side of the cardboard, forcing them to try steadying it and carrying it between them. Accompanied by the sound of water sloshing.

“Watertight, my ass.” Steve muttered as they fought for balance – the uneven splotch of water on the cardboard stopped growing. Critter Keepers were obviously NOT watertight.

“Man why are you carrying them anywhere, Dustin? Just leave them at home!”

“No, Steve! These are my _CHILDREN_ I can’t leave them just _ANYWHERE!_ Christ! You of all people should understand!” Dustin made a sour face as they made their way up the walkway to the Wheeler house, the box held between them, shuffling awkwardly sideways.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what I mean! And Tews could EAT them! I _CAN’T_ have another pet _eaten_ , Steve! My heart can’t take that again!”

Steve raised a brow at that as Dustin worked himself into slight hysteria, wondering at the irony of Tews eating one of the pollywogs, when the first ‘pollywog’ Dustin had owned had eaten their LAST cat Mews. Like some sort of twisted karma.

And Steve did know what Dustin meant – the kids had been giving him enough shit about acting like a dad or a mom-friend or whatever tickled their fancy at the moment – AKA his lovely Christmas Present for #1 Dad.

“Okay okay, I get it.” Steve shook his head before they finally made their way into the house. 

"Besides. I have to take notes 24/7. A scientist's work and research is never done!"


	12. Say it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 9th, 1985

They were all gathered in Mike's basement, toys strewn around the place in haphazard places that could easily be stepped on, a discarded game of Connect Four, a huge model of the Millennium Falcon on their playing table, and other little knick-knacks and boxes full of old storage and a comfortable looking blanket fort made of sheets and pillows. Playing the dragons game with the nerds was intense and fast paced as usual, and Steve was stumbling along to keep up, like usual, and ‘going unconscious’ a lot, like usual, playing the role of a sword-wielding Fighter for a few hours. 

Dustin’s nose was half buried in the Monsters Manual, and Max was flipping through A Dungeons and Dragons Adventure comic, as the kids all rapid-fired sentences at Steve, like –

_‘Use Dueling! You have a mellee weapon You need the damage!’_

_‘We should let Steve decide…or he won’t learn…’_

_‘Screw that, use Protection on Lucas, he has higher hit points!’_

_‘HA yeah ‘cause Lucas is a WIIIIIMP.’_

_‘I - but you’re my GIRLFRIEND!’_

_‘So?’_

_‘I’m REALLY brave!’_

_‘No no, he needs to heal first before he does that! Don't fall unconscious again!’_

_‘Don’t be an IDIOT! They're coming! SHIT, SHIT!’_

_‘Stop making basketball play analogies, Steve!’_

\- and rolling for damage, and they were yelling, and Steve was yelling, everyone was yelling, and _‘THE UNDEAD ARE BREAKING IN THE FRONT DOOR of YOUR PATHETIC HOVEL! CRACK! Hnghhh! BRAINS!’_ and Dustin was screaming and throwing the dice at the wall, making everyone groan.

And of course, Dustin took the opportunity to check on his tadpoles, and take a few notes – they were all spread out on a nearby table in their individual Kritter Keeper tanks, which, of course, ALL had slotted, brightly colored lids for air holes. Not even a LITTLE bit watertight. Each had a name card taped to the front, with shaky cursive sharpie scrawled in names like 'Athos,' 'Porthos' and 'Aramis.' 

As the brief mini-campaign wound down, they started gathering things up, and Steve was on his fourth slice of pizza and chugging a coke for a heady caffeine buzz and sugar high. His hands were feeling a little shaky. How many had he drunk so far? Leaning back in his chair as he idly fiddled with one of the multi-sided die. He was pushing a coaster towards Dustin as a reminder to use it, and not leave water rings on the table.

“Okay, so now that our mini-campaign is complete, I have something I wanted to bring to order with the Party.” Mike said, banging the feet of a Darth Vader action figure on the table to call the apparent meeting to order. 

The kids quit squirming around, and Lucas stopped mid-swat at Dustin and every set of wide eyes turned to Steve. Steve stared back, put on the spot, as he leaned back in his rickety old chair far enough to balance on two legs, barely keeping from falling backwards as he paused with the pop can at his lips. 

“Uh. What? I stopped using basketball plays.” Steve slowly lowered the bright red aluminum can from his mouth. He felt like a spotlight had been directed at him, bright and hot and very specific.

“We’ve been meaning to discuss this with you once we were all together.” Mike said like Steve was in some kind of trouble, and they were having an intervention. 

“Okayyy. Discuss what?” 

“Well last week, it was brought to my attention that you’ve been hanging out with one _BILLY HARGROVE._ AND it involved Max.” 

Mike’s eyes bugged out as he made a foul expression with his mouth. He’d been in a piss-poor mood for most of the day – worse than usual, anyway – and Steve suspected it was because Eleven was still upset with him over the egg-eating incident. 

_Now, he was like a dog with a bone._

“I mean, he tried to KILL Lucas! He almost ran us all off the road that one time!” 

“The guy’s a total _waistoid_ , man.” Lucas added, shaking his head, and tightening his bandana around his forehead with a frown. He seemed uncomfortable.

“I'm sure Steve had a really good reason!” Dustin piped up, ever Steve's cheerleader.

“Man, I know that. Who do you think stepped in and STOPPED it? I didn't forget. And oh, it was just brought to your attention, huh?” Steve asked bemusedly, slowly raising an eyebrow.

“My sources remain anonymous!” 

Will slid down a little in his seat and cast a guilty look at Steve from beneath his bowl cut, and Steve had already _known_ that Will was the one that had told them – told Mike anyway, then, true to form, Mike had opened his big fuckin’ mouth and hadn’t shut it, even now. Will told Mike everything.  
Steve’d known it was Will since he talked to Nancy about it.

Steve glanced at Will, and shook his head a little, brown bangs furling over his forehead – he was trying to say _‘it was fine.’_ Will didn’t look reassured, though.

Max’s mouth had drawn into a short, tight line, her pale brows furrowed in an ‘M’ shape as she glared at Mike. Her wild red hair flaring out around her with flyways and tangles, as she fidgeted in her short sleeve striped shirt and bell bottoms. Her skateboard was in her lap beneath the table, and she kept tapping her Vans, bouncing her knee, and making one of the wheels hit the underside of the table. _‘Tappa tappa tappa.’_

“I told you, you should drop it, Mike!” She insisted. 

Mike glared back at her, looking like he’d just snorted a rolly-polly up his nose on accident.  
“Well you were outvoted! This affects the entire Party, not just you! Your brother is dangerous!” 

“He’s _NOT_ my brother!”

Mike zeroed back in on Steve, who was drawing a long drink from his pop can, looking back at Mike like he was bored already – clearly not impressed. Still on two wooden legs, a balancing act. 

“Besides, he beat the shit out of you! Are you some kinda masochist, Steve? Huh? None of us should be talking to him! Just out of pure common sense! Just tell us what happened, so we can determine the best course of action.” 

Steve rolled his eyes so far into his head he thought they might disappear, before he dropped back onto the two front legs of his chair, making everyone jump at the sudden sound. What the hell was a masochist, anyway? He wasn’t going to ask.

Mike was a real pain in the ass sometimes, and he had some kind of God-complex as the Dungeon Master.

“Max is right, you shoulda just dropped it, Mike. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Steve pointed at the kid around his coke can, still fiddling with the die with the other hand. “It’s none of your business, alright?”  
Christ, he sounded like Billy when he said that.

“Uh, _NO,_ it’s Party business! I know that Max was involved! And I guess _YOU_ count now, too.” He made a disgusted face at that, like maybe he’d been outvoted about Steve being a part of the Party, his lip curling up. Scoffing.  
“To make matters worse, you even took him to _WILL’S_ place!? _Will!_ Will doesn’t need any more shit!” Mike glared at him, mouth hanging open a little like Steve was a special brand of stupid. 

“Look, you’re not responsible for me, okay?”  
The concept was laughable. It was the other way around.  
“But it’s still not your business, and it’s not Party business, it’s definitely not your SISTER’S business, it’s _MY_ business, and if I want to talk to Billy Hargrove or not, that’s up to me.”  
Steve’s voice was steadily growing louder, still pointing at Mike like he was trying to make a real point.  
“It’s just, it’s COMPLICATED, okay?!”

Steve looked at Max, once, and they exchanged a knowing glance – because they both knew what had happened that weekend. They'd both had Billy's blood on their hands, literally. And Max obviously knew more, and she wasn't talking. It just wasn’t their story to tell. Because there was something off about that weekend, about that night, and Steve knew that Max knew it – and he thought she knew more than she’d told Steve – but Steve didn’t know what was really going on. She was omitting details, he knew that much.

But it wasn’t something he felt he should touch, or talk about, or really think about too hard until he had more solid facts than the word _‘stairs,’_ sounding like a lie. If it had been a fight, Billy would have been bragging about it, strutting about it – a cocky grin on his face, just like he had in the locker room showers when he’d been asked about it later, after the fact. Saying _‘you should see the other guy.’_

But that hadn't happened when Steve had first showed up. No, he wouldn’t have lied when the wounds were still fresh if it had just been a fight. Right?

That weekend still felt too open, too raw, to examine too closely. Watching Billy get the back of his head stitched up beneath his curls at Joyce Byers' kitchen table, the way Billy's face had twisted and gone white as a sheet when she'd reconnected his shoulder joint. The way he'd carried himself for that entire week - like he might fall apart, but was hiding it well - even as he terrorized Steve like it was his job or something. There was no way in hell Steve was opening his mouth about it – and clearly, Max wasn’t either. Steve thought, for a moment, about how he’d sprawled on the spring-browned grass in the blue-grey shade of the school building in the late afternoon light, Billy at his side in a wreathe of cigarette smoke, Steve’s headphones over his ears, and the way Billy had asked him why Steve hadn’t said anything. In a softer voice than normal. Like he’d expected Steve to tell anyone who would listen about that entire shitshow of a weekend. Like he hadn't been able to believe someone wouldn't.

“I think you’re emotionally compromised by the situation. Maybe he really did give you some kinda brain damage.” Mike sniffed.

“Steve isn’t a gold shirt for that to be an issue!” Dustin said.

“He acts like he is!” Mike grimaced. “But he’s just a _RED SHIRT!_ ”

"Well TECHNICALLY, either part of the command team could be emotionally compromised. You could argue that the entire bridge - " Lucas was undoing his bandana, and folding it with neat creases. 

"Shut up, Lucas!" Mike huffed. Lucas threw the bandana at him.

“Of COURSE I’d be a gold shirt, who the hell do you think I am? But NO, I’m not ‘emotionally compromised.’” 

Mike scoffed in disbelief - whether over Steve being a captain-type, or the fact that Steve had watched Star Trek before, he didn't know. Steve had only seen a few episodes, but still. It was 1985, who hadn't seen a few episodes by now?

“The guy is a grade A dick, what do you even have to talk with him about?” Lucas frowned at Steve, not notched up quite as high as Mike was, but obviously miffed at being cut off.

“Stop trying to make everything about the Party, you guys, Jesus. The world doesn’t revolve around your dragons game.” 

“Dungeons and Dragons, Steve! _Dungeons. And. Dragons!_ We just played it for _three hours,_ and you can’t remember the name! You’re such an IDIOT!” Mike yelled in exasperation, burying his face in his hands. “And you think the world revolves around football or something, so!”

“Billy didn’t do anything wrong at my house, he was – “ Will started in his whisper soft voice, but he was quickly drowned out, like usual. 

“Can we just leave Billy out of this? He’s been better since the fight at Will’s house! He’s left you guys alone like he promised. I’ve BEEN keeping an eye on him, this wasn’t _ABOUT_ that.” Max had folded her arms tight over her chest, her shoulders raising up around her ears as she glowered at Mike, blue eyes spitting fire. 

“How sure are we they haven’t had devices implanted into their brains?” Dustin asked slowly, looking between Steve and Max with this weird look on his face. 

“To be determined. Then what _WAS_ it about, Max? We saw what he did to Steve's face! AGAIN!”

Max threw her hands above her head. “Devices?! Ugh, you idiots, I’m serious! Stop it! He’s still an asshole, but he – I just – I can’t TELL you guys, okay? He’d kill me!” 

"What? Like Invasion of the Body Snatchers!" Dustin waved around wildly.

"Pod people don't have devices in their brains! You're so dumb! That's why they're POD PEOPLE!" Lucas gasped in exasperation.

“Friends don’t lie!” Mike shot back immediately at Max, ignoring the others, like he’d been ready for her to say that. “AND THAT’S THE EXACT ISSUE HERE! _DEATH!_ The guy is _UNSTABLE.”_

“I’m not _LYING!_ I'm not a LIAR!” Max spat like an angry cat.

“It’s lying by omission!” Mike snapped.

“Look,” Lucas started, holding his hands out like he was trying to be some kind of peacekeeper. “If she says it’s fine, maybe we should just listen.” 

“You voted in favor of this! You can’t go back on it!” Mike scowled at Lucas. “Just ‘cause she's your _GIRLFRIEND!”_

“You’re just mad because El isn’t talking to you. El! Oh, El! Boo-hoo! You weren’t even really pushing this until last night! I thought we were gonna let it slide until you put it to the vote!” Lucas mocked Mike, batting his eyes when his voice raised an octave at _‘El! Oh, El! Boo-hoo!’_ grasping his hands next to his cheek like a lovelorn fool. 

"If Steve says it's complicated, it's complicated!" Dustin started cheer-leading again.

Max was standing up from her chair, pushing it back with the movement. Her duct-taped skateboard hanging from her small hand like a weapon to bludgeon somebody with.

Will was reaching for another piece of pizza, nervously glancing around at all of them all wide-eyed and remorseful, and he just sort of held it in front of him – not eating it – like he’d just needed something to busy his hands with, or hold in front of his face. He looked like he might cry he was so nervous, like a frightened Chihuahua shaking in fear. Steve reached over and clapped him on the shoulder for some kind of reassurance. 

Dustin was holding up both of his hands in a placating motion towards both Lucas and Mike.  
“Guys, guys! We should let Steve get his say! And lower your voices, you’re scaring my tadpoles! _They’re very sensitive!”_

Mike huffed a huge sigh like he’d swallowed something spicy, or gotten the wind kicked out of him, and glared at Steve with his big accusatory eyes, _so MUCH_ like Nancy’s when she called him ‘ _bullshit’_ on repeat like a scratched record, that it was positively uncanny.

“Okay. _FINE._ Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

Steve stood up abruptly, knocking the chair back as he tossed the die down on the table. It skittered around in circles on the board next to the character figures like a little top. 

“Jesus, I’m not on trial here, alright? Listen up, shitheads, I was just here to play your stupid dragons game because, you know, because, because - uh, Dustin bribed me. _With food._ I didn’t come here to, be interrogated or something. Why am I even hanging out with you guys? It’s spring break. Shit.” 

Because he had no one else to hang out with.  
Because he liked them.  
Because they made him laugh.  
Because he was a damn good babysitter.  
Because he thought he’d been wanted.  
Because they felt like family when they weren’t being assholes – (mostly just Mike was, though.)  
Because he didn’t have a lot of that. Family.

Steve glanced at Dustin, shoulder blades pinched tight behind him, hands cocked on the hips of his blue jeans as his lips dug deeper into a frown. He had to drive Dustin home. He had to eat dinner at Dustin’s house. He just wanted to go home. He wanted to be alone. He was always alone, though. 

Even his kids were giving him shit now. Great. But then again…he supposed they gave him a lot of shit, always. They never listened to him, especially when they were shoving him, unconscious, into the back of Billy’s Camaro. Or when he had really good ideas about stuff. Why should this time be any different?

“I’m older than you little assholes and I can make my own choices about who I talk to or why. And I don’t have to TELL you that _‘why’_ just to be in your little club. You’re the last fuckin’ person I have to answer to, _MIKE_.” His head dipped back as he took one final chug of his coke, and crushed the empty can in his hand like crumpling a paper.

“Oh! Oh fine! FINE THEN!” Mike said, puffing his gangly little body up all big, mouth gaping open as he clearly worked himself up even farther. He looked like a suffocating fish. How dare someone challenge the mighty DM?  
“You think our _‘dragons game’_ is stupid well I think your _FACE_ is _stupid_. And if you’re not going to tell us something that could endanger my Party members, then I’m temporarily suspending you from all Party activities, dipwad! You aren’t, you weren’t – “ Mike’s mouth gasped open for a second, he was so worked up, he couldn’t get the words out.

“What? Say it!” Steve’s back had gone rigid, a sinking feeling in his stomach, and it pooled somewhere near the toes of his Nikes. 

“You weren’t even supposed to _BE_ here!” 

Dustin, Lucas, and Will gasped, scandalized over the suspension, while Max looked around confused at what that meant – she was the only other one standing up besides Steve, her board still hanging from one hand, woefully unused. 

“You don’t mean that, dammit!” Dustin half shouted at Mike, his hands slapping down on the table.

“Like hell I don’t!” Mike snapped.

“Woah, I mean that seems a _little_ extreme – “ Lucas started.

“Guys, wait, it really wasn’t a big deal, I didn’t mean to - ” Will cried, looking tearfully around the circle of friends.

“IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE PA – Y’know what, no, I don’t have time for this middle school shit.”  
He could be playing Nintendo in his boxers. He could still be blessedly _asleep_ , if he was so lucky. He was so damn tired, just, all the time, and he didn’t have the patience right now. He closed his sleep bruised, dark eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.  
Then, “Guess what? I don’t _CARE_. You guys have fought real monsters, REAL ones, and you’re scared of _BILLY HARGROVE?_ Right.” Steve tossed his crumpled up can towards the wastebin like a basketball, and made it in one shot. “Dustin, finish your…whatever, get your frogs, then meet me outside in forty five, and I’m taking you home. I told your mom six o'clock. Later, losers.” 

 

Steve had swiped up his keys, and was already heading up the stairs as Mike called after him, “Oh like you weren’t scared of him when he beat in your face!” 

"I'm not scared of anything!" Steve called back before he got his hand on the door knob. Steve Harrington was a liar. He knew he was a liar. He knew what scared him. And it wasn't Billy Hargrove. Not really.

Then, they all continued to argue in his absence -  
_  
‘This should be a vote!’_

_‘We already voted! It’s already done! I’m the DM! It’s TEMPORARY! My ruling is final!’_

_‘Steve doesn’t have to tell us everything!’_

_‘The guy is a tool, I guess. Why’s he hanging out with that psychopath?’_

_‘’cause like I said, he’s obviously a masochist!’_

_‘Just leave my step-brother out of this! It has nothing to do with him. You’re blowing this WAY out of proportion. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’_

_‘It has everything to do with him! Weren’t you LISTENING? Why are you defending him NOW? I’m trying to keep everyone SAFE, this is for you too, you know!’_

_‘No you’re just acting power hungry! You’re being a real SAURON right now, Mike! You need the One Ring, too? Huh? HUH?’_

A gasp. _‘YOU TAKE THAT BACK!’_

_‘MAKE ME, WHEELER!’_

\- and then the sound of a scuffle and fists between Max and Mike, before Steve had closed the basement door, trying his damnedest not to slam it, yelling down "DON'T KILL EACH OTHER WHILE I'M GONE!" Mike gave a yelp.  
And they thought BILLY was dangerous. He turned around on the landing with a world-weary sigh, thoughts on sitting in his Beamer for the next forty five minutes because fuck Mike Wheeler, and - 

\- and _speak of the devil._ He wasn’t expecting the topic of their conversation to be standing in the Wheeler’s kitchen. Leaning against the kitchen island in a worn brown leather jacket, a half undone navy blue snap button shirt, and too-tight wash jeans, ripped at the knees. Eating a brownie like it was a sin. Looking right at Steve with a lazy, dangerous smile curled over his too-pink lips, and sharp ocean eyes that saw right through him.

Steve froze.

"Hey there, Amigo."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 80's references: https://lemonlovely.tumblr.com/post/174432653306/12-80s-referencesvisuals-list


	13. I could kiss you right now!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry this update took me a little while, I was struggling with it. 
> 
> Just a warning that there's abuse in this chapter, as well as homophobic and derogatory language.
> 
> April 9th, 1985

Billy wasn’t supposed to be at The Wheeler's – he wasn’t supposed to be here until six, to pick Maxine up from her stupid Dungeons and Dragons campaign to get her home before supper. He was on orders from up high, obviously. But he had gotten here early. Because he’d needed to get out of the house, even though it was spring break, and he’d honestly not had anywhere to be.

He had planned on staying at the house, and he was fucking ecstatic because he’d dropped off Maxine late in the morning at The Wheeler’s house, leaving the rest of the day to himself. No shit-hole Hawkins High to make an appearance at, no Maxine to cart around, nothing but the house to himself because his dad had work, and Susan had gone shopping. 

Spring Break was proving to be at least somewhat worthwhile for a small town, he had a house-party almost every night. Maxine could have as many little campaigns as she wanted – he was pumped enough about it that he even knew Sinclair would be there, and he was letting her have her way this time. Because Billy had the house to himself. 

He didn’t give her a lick of shit over it. Hell, he’d drive her there with a smile on his pretty face, because his birthday was in less than a week, and Billy was going to spend the day blaring his _Ride the Lightning_ LP on his record player he'd move to the living room. 

Working out until he was burning up with fire and built up sweat, his muscles trembling just enough so that he couldn’t feel his bones anymore.  
Until he was numb with it.  
Blissfully numb. 

MTV was on silent in the background, just for the color of the music videos. Instead, Metallica screamed through the speakers he’d jimmy rigged to his record player, on repeat. Tromping into the kitchen when he felt like it, because he had the house to himself, and he could finally fuckin’ catch his breath and breathe for a second without walking on eggshells, wondering if he was allowed the food.  
If he had permission. 

He’d eaten breakfast AND lunch that day, because he had open access to the fridge and cupboards, and Neil wasn’t restricting his lunch like at school. Holding back lunch money, and leaving Billy to power through the afternoon on sugar from a single Dr Pepper from the soda machine, counting quarters from his pocket. 

Teaching him the value of a dime, apparently. Or maybe it was just because they were always broke. 

Leaving Billy waiting until dinner that night. He needed a fucking job so he could make his own cash, but he wasn’t allowed – he had to ‘focus on his grades,’ and basketball, in hopes of a scholarship.  
The lack of money also added another layer to his pops control over him. Billy knew that. 

But he was almost eighteen, almost to graduation, it was almost summer. The little money he did have saved was going to blowing this shitty pop-stand, not to something little, like lunch money. 

But it had felt good to have a full stomach this afternoon, a spam sandwich and an apple giving him enough energy for a really powerful work-out. Shit, it was even enough to do a leg-day, and it made him feel giddy and sharp and real, and for a second, like he wasn’t going to crawl out of his skin with the cold, hard rage that was always beneath it like a second, inner layer. 

“Twenty eight….” Breath in smoke. “Twenty nine…” Exhale it. “Thirty.” Earring swinging. 

He’d been able to work a lot of it off, actually, that bottled fury. Tiring himself out so good. Singing along, no _screaming_ along to _‘Creeping Death’_ at the top of his lungs when the mood hit him, powering him up. Fueling the fire in his veins. Making him burn and go harder, and yelling about it on occasion just because he could.

He was shaking a little when he tossed himself down onto the couch, head back as he drew the cigarette from his mouth. Blowing a cloud of it up at the popcorn ceiling, legs sprawled out wide, corded muscles rippling as he sat there bare chested. His skin shiny and slick in nothing but ratty gray sweats hanging off his hipbones, probably smearing sweat on the couch cushions and not fearing the repercussions for once. 

Breathing. Really breathing, all nicotine and inhaled heavy tunes, vibrating on his tongue, with a stomach that wasn’t squirming for a second meal. Billy had melted into the couch, all loose limbed, a sneaker tapping to the beat. It was almost all the way healed, now. 

He was buzzing from his workout like he was coming down from a high, and still trying to catch his breath. His chest shimmering with perspiration as it rose and fell in rapid succession. Sucking in another lungful of smoke, mouthing over the cigarette filter, thoughtfully thinking of absolutely nothing.  
It was real great. 

He grabbed up his beer can from the coffee table and was sipping it absently, he didn’t even care that it was getting a little warm. Billy had the windows open to let the sweet spring air in – it almost felt like nice weather, which was a fucking miracle in this shit hole of a town. The air still smelled like cow-shit though, big surprise. Fuck Indiana, and everything in it. Like damn. 

At least he wasn’t freezing his balls off today. That was something.

Billy sat that way for a while, eyes closed, slowing his heartbeat in his post work-out high, absently running his tongue over his lips. Slowly grinding his teeth, and relaxing to the instrumentals of _The Call of Ktulu._  
It was like listening to Mozart or some shit. Relaxed him. 

And maybe it was because he _was_ relaxed. Maybe it was because he was alone for once. Maybe he was just in a mood or somethin’. But Billy ended up retrieving one of his books from the old bookbag satchel that was hidden, out of sight from his dad, in the trunk of the Camaro. He kept a lot of shit he didn’t want his old man to find in there, what didn’t fit in the worn out shoe box tucked in the back of his closet. 

He settled onto the couch with his old, thin, heavily worn, and variously dog-eared, paperback copy of _Frankenstein._ The paper spine was actually starting to disintegrate and fall off, the cover curling at the corners like the legs of a spider that had died, and part of the title was scratched out from being shoved into a bag with too many other books, including hard backs. 

The pages were yellowing. The book smelled like age, like old cigarettes, and like the bourbon that had been spilled on it once, warping the edges of the pages. It was still stamped with a ‘Property of Oceanside Middle School Library’ on the inside of the cover, with the last name written on the paper check-out insert ‘William Hargrove,' in cursive. 

It was as ugly as the monster that lurked in its pages.

Billy settled onto the couch, after lifting the needle off the _Ride the Lightning_ LP, flipping easily to one of the dog-eared pages like he knew each bent page by heart. Spring insects were beginning to buzz outside, and that was the only sound over the hum of the muted television set and the pace of his breath. 

Billy held the book one handed, his thumb braced into the divot of the pages, the other wielding his cigarette. He skipped straight to chapter 10. Humming slightly as he read, head tipped back, his sweat slick body cooling in a slight spring breeze from the open window. Mouthing along faintly to the words. Sometimes he sipped at his beer, like an afterthought.

 

_"Devil," I exclaimed, "do you dare approach me? and do not you fear the fierce vengeance of my arm wreaked on your miserable head? Begone, vile insect! or rather, stay, that I may trample you to dust! and, oh! that I could, with the extinction of your miserable existence, restore those victims whom you have so diabolically murdered!"_

_"I expected this reception," said the daemon. "All men hate the wretched; how, then, must I be hated, who am miserable beyond all living things! Yet you, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy creature, to whom thou art bound by ties only dissoluble by the annihilation of one of us. You purpose to kill me. How dare you sport thus with life? Do your duty towards me, and I will do mine towards you and the rest of mankind. If you will comply with my conditions, I will leave them and you at peace; but if you refuse, I will glut the maw of death, until it be satiated with the blood of your remaining friends."_

_"Abhorred monster! fiend that thou art! the tortures of hell are too mild a vengeance for thy crimes. Wretched devil! you reproach me with your creation; come on, then, that I may extinguish the spark which I so negligently bestowed."_

 

“Fuck you, Frankenstein.” Billy muttered. “Asshole.”

Billy heard the screen door to the sun porch slam open, rattling on its hinges. His eyes snapped up to the yellow front door, breath catching, brow furrowed. On instinct he shoved the book behind one of Susan’s daisy throw pillows.

Watching the door – he started to get up, to go to it, to see if someone was trying to either break in, or maybe they were just some particularly aggressive Mormons – the ones that had ‘talked to Maxine,’ apparently, a few times, but Billy’d never seen hide nor hair of the fuckers. He’d give them a piece of his mind when he did – if that’s what they were at all, or it was the little shitbird’s lame-ass friends fucking around the house. Either way, he’d teach them this wasn't the best hang out spot.

Billy was already standing, cig hanging from his lips, a scowl forming, when the deadbolt twisted with a key from the other side, and his old man was standing there. Neil stood in the entryway, framed by the spring light through the sunroom. Staring at Billy, his briefcase hanging from one hand, his tie askew. 

Something was wrong.

Billy went still, trying to make himself seem smaller, his fingers slowly curling and uncurling at his sides with sudden nerves. Neil shouldn’t be home. It was the middle of a weekday. He should be at work. He had his briefcase and everything. But he knew, just looking at the man, that he was drunk. He swayed a bit on the spot, as if he’d been at the bar. Billy took an unconscious step back, the rears of his calves bumping the couch. His book hidden beneath a pillow like it had a neon fucking sign above it with an arrow. 

Neil glared at him, uneven on his feet in the door frame. He slammed the sunshine colored door behind him, making the wall shake. He walked past the jar of seashells on the mantle that Billy and Max had collected in years past. 

The room was too quiet now, without the music, without the TV, without anything. Billy felt his shoulders curl forward reflexively. 

“Hi, dad.” Billy said.

“Why aren’t you in school?” Neil snapped. “You playing hookie, boy?”

Billy shook his head slowly. “No, sir.” He cleared his throat. “It’s spring break…there is no school.”  
He felt a scowl slowly spreading across his mouth, warping his features. 

“Don’t talk back to me. And don’t you _lie._ ”

Neil took a staggering step forward, dropping the briefcase on the ground by the door. Toeing his fancy dress shoes off by the door – Billy noted absently that they weren’t his military grade, steel toed boots – no, he was wearing a business suit like usual, but his tie hung askance, and something wasn’t right. 

Billy grit his teeth. He wasn’t fucking talking back. It was spring break. Neil KNEW that. He didn’t have to be in school today. Billy didn’t have to do SHIT today. 

“No, sir. I’m not _lying_.” Billy grit out, ready to bite his tongue our of frustration. Talking around the cig filter. He really wasn’t. Not this time.

“You get your sorry ass to school and pick up your sister. No son of mine is going to be playing hookie like some piece of shit lowlife, you hear me?” Neil slurred. He was fucking drunk.

Billy sucked in a breath and nodded, slowly, slowly. Neil was dangerous when he was drunk. Or at least, more dangerous than normal. But Billy needed to get the book out from under the pillow. Neil couldn’t catch him with anything that wasn’t a playboy magazine full of tits and lady-ass, or it would be Billy’s hyde. 

Because _‘only faggots read books.’_ And Billy, Billy wasn’t a faggot. Even if Neil told him he was every goddamn day, like a reminder, pouring salt in a wound.  
But he was trying not to be. He was trying.  
Even as he was hiding classical books, and pretending that he wasn’t looking at Steve Harrington’s too-big, perfect pretty face, and fixing his hair in the mirror until it was ideal, he was trying. 

Or maybe…maybe he was just hiding. Not only the books. Just…himself. Billy didn’t know anymore.  
Billy scowled at the thought, huffing a low sigh. 

He could never keep his fucking mouth shut, could he?  
“Dad, there IS no school today.” He repeated all slow, like his pops was dumb. “It’s _spring break._ Maxine is at her little friends, playing that game of theirs. I TOLD you that.” 

Neil was in front of him, picking up Billy’s own warm beer from the coffee table. Billy couldn’t help but draw himself up, head tilted back, spine rigid. Like he was being pressed backwards by his dad’s sheer presence, back against an invisible wall. Neil took one long gulp, two, his throat moving, never taking those flat, dead eyes off of Billy once.

The edge of the couch dug into Billy’s calves. He was hedged in between the coffee table, the sofa, and Neil. Trapped like a rat in a cage. Neil stepped in closer to Billy still. 

Billy was overly aware that they were alone in the house. No Susan, no Maxine. 

“D-don’t you have work, dad?” Billy breathed, and it was hard to form words.

Neil plucked the cigarette from the corner of Billy’s mouth, where it was shedding ash onto the carpet, unnoticed. 

“Don’t you ask me my business, ‘n don’t you try and CORRECT me, William. I’ve taught you better than that. I don't like your attitude, don't you _take_ that tone with me.” 

Neil sounded the words out slowly, like he was tasting them, or maybe trying to drive them home. Holding Billy’s half-finished cigarette. It was bad when his pops called him William.

“And I thought I told you not to smoke in the living room. You know it bothers Susan’s allergies. You take it outside, or keep it in your room. We’ve _TALKED_ about this.” 

And then he promptly put the cigarette out on Billy’s bare shoulder, the bright red cherry sizzling on slow-drying sweat and soft skin. It was the shoulder Neil had dislocated a few weeks past. His bad one. 

“Why don't you ever listen?” He said.

Billy let out a sharp hiss between clenched teeth as he tried to jerk back, away from the burn, but his calves caught on the couch, and he just thudded down onto the cushions. He was choking back a yelp in the back of his throat, because fuck it burned, it stung, but he couldn’t cry out, either. Couldn’t be a pussy. 

He sat there stupidly for a second. Branded. Like property, or chattle. Like he was owned. It wasn't his first one.

Neil dropped the spent butt on the carpet, and upturned the beer can, liberally spilling the remainder of it over Billy’s head, making him shake. Rivulets ran down his scalp, and the spot on his shoulder was on fire, blistering already. Billy was breathing fast, blinking warm beer rapidly out of his eyes, squinting. 

He almost couldn’t see. Everything was a blur. But he just sat there. Let it happen. Shoulders hunching around his ears.

Neil was grabbing onto that long, curly hair that Billy’s mother had loved so much. So much she couldn’t bear to cut it, flower-child that she was. Twisting his square, blunt fingers into it, getting a better hold, and then bodily lifted Billy up from the couch by his hair. Fingers squishing in the hops-steeped liquid. Tugging until it hurt, scalp smarting. 

Billy stood on his two feet, setting them this time, breathing hard through flaring nostrils, the beer spattering onto his shoulders in tinted splotches. 

“Now what did I tell you to do, you little queer? Huh?” 

Billy was still blinking, blearily trying to focus on Neil. Beer in his eyes. They stung with the alcohol, and maybe something else, so he swiped at them once.

“To get my ste - … sister.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to go pick her up. Sir.”

He’d learned how to stay on his feet. He had to stay up.

Billy knew the next lines in the book. He knew them well.

_‘Be calm! I entreat you to hear me, before you give vent to your hatred on my devoted head. Have I not suffered enough that you seek to increase my misery? Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.’_

Neil released him by shoving him away by the grip in his mullet, his face twisted in disgust. Disgust for Billy. For his existence. He wiped his hand off on his suit jacket like he’d touched something dirty, something tainted.

“You’re damn right you fucking are. And clean up this mess you made. I’m going to change.”  
Neil was already loosening his tie farther, his disheveled suit hanging off of him, as he wandered farther back into the house towards his and Susan’s room. 

Billy sat down hard on the couch, frozen like marble for a second, staring at nothing before he was leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees as he ducked his head down low. There was a steady ‘drip drip drip’ on the carpet as he tried to suck in a breath of oxygen, but he couldn’t breathe really. Air was only stuttering in his lungs. 

He placed his head in his hands, trying to still a dizzy spell. Trying not to let the panic begin. His foot kept on tapping and he couldn’t make it fucking stop, even when he gripped his knee so hard it hurt.

_‘But I will not be tempted to set myself in opposition to thee. I am thy creature, and I will be even mild and docile to my natural lord and king.’_

He’d let his guard down. He should never do that. He needed to always be prepared, just in case. He couldn’t be weak. He couldn’t be a little bitch. He just needed to be harder. Needed to be tougher. Needed to learn respect. To learn when to shut the fuck up. 

Because it was his fault, this was his fault, it was always his fault. 

Billy shuddered once.  
He tried to get his limbs to respond, to try and stand, even though he wavered, feeling too-heavy, like gravity had increased. He snatched up the well-loved paperback from it’s hiding place beneath the pillow and shoved it into the back of the waistband of his sweats, hiding it if Neil were to look too close. 

He rushed, needing to get out, needing to get away, blotting and cleaning where Billy’d spilled beer on the couch with an old, ratty towel, which he put into the hamper. 

He slapped a Ninja-Turtles Band-Aid over the blistered, smoldering cigarette burn after spraying it with Bactine.  
Then he slipped into a short sleeve button up, mostly undone, careful of the smarting spot on his shoulder.  
The cotton fabric soaked up the beer on his shoulders. He didn’t take the time to clean that up, he needed to leave before his dad came out of his room. 

A leather jacket was thrown on out of old habits, even though it was warm out. It made him feel safer.  
Sweats were exchanged for jeans, sneakers for boots, and Billy tried slapping on some cologne to cover up the smell of hops. 

He didn’t know why Neil was home, or why he was drunk at one in the afternoon, and he wasn’t going to question it again. He knew better. Billy could be good.

Billy felt rattled and spread out, like puzzle pieces that were no longer connected, and maybe it was because he had been too relaxed, because he had left his guard down like that, been a little bitch. He’d had his book in his hand and the spring air had smelled sweet with tulips and he’d thought that he’d be alright for a minute. So now it was worse than if he hadn’t tried being not-angry at all. Because that never worked. Never lasted.

Billy was going to shake right out of his skin, and there was a tremble in his fingertips, barely disguised rage, not fear, and he wanted to slam his fists into something, someone. His knuckles ached for it. Wanted to splinter for it. His fury was back three fold, lying just beneath his glass skin like an old friend. One he needed, and leaned against, relied on. Even as he was choking on it.

Everything could have been much worse, especially when Neil had been drinking a lot. Billy had been lucky. He got off easy. Now, Billy wanted a fight. Billy wanted to work off this helpless feeling, a fresh brand on his shoulder, and what better way than laying his fists into someone when he could never lift a finger against his own father.

 

So that was how his day of relaxation and pumping iron and not doing shit until the house party later that night got turned into him driving aimlessly around Hawkins, because he knew the sort of bitchin’ Maxine would start up if he showed up to get her.  
It was way too early. He’d promised her the day.

But there was only so much he could do around Hawkins, only so many roads to blaze down at his heart racing speeds, looking for a fight, needing a fight, making Lenore purr and roar just for him, his book tucked away safely back in her trunk. He felt wild, burning too bright, too hot. Singeing himself as he air dried.

He’d gone to the quarry for a while, trying to get the shiver out of his bones as he looked out over the sunlight sparkling on water, thinking of Cali to slow his heart rate, to ignore the spark of pain from the ember of his own cigarette. 

He’d sat at the edge of the precipice that dropped down sheer to the water, his boots dangling as he smoked, and thought about what it would be to hit that water. Pebbles skittering below him, like the ground might give way. He wondered if you would sink like a stone, or if you would smash on the glittering surface like a ton of bricks.

The reminder of misery was heavy upon his tongue like nicotine, weighing upon his body like a physical thing. Holding to his shoulders, dragging him down.

His birthday was in a week. Less than a week. He could do this. He would make it. That thought helped to settle him, if only a little.

Eventually he’d just parked in front of The Wheelers because he had nowhere else to go. Couldn’t go home without Maxine. His Aviators were perched on his nose as he slowly smoked a fresh Marlboro, fiddling with his silver Zippo in one hand, arm hanging out the window. He’d flick it on with a snap of his wrist every so often, just to watch the flame burn.

He also admired how he looked in his shades, with the rearview mirror angled towards him. Distracting himself. He made a few little kissy faces at his pretty face, licking his lips with a hot tongue. Damn he knew he was gorgeous. It wasn’t a crime. It made him feel a little better.

That was about when Karen Wheeler waved him in, like maybe she’d been watching and that was the last straw to inviting him inside - boasting a plate of brownies like she was Vanna White or some shit. And Billy never turned down food, especially free food. It was better than waiting in the car. Or at least, he hoped so. 

But once he was in, and settled in the kitchen, chewing on a gooey brownie, he was reminded of just what it was to be around Mrs. Wheeler. He’d been avoiding her pretty thoroughly. She was no Joyce Byers, that was for damn sure, and he’d be remiss to think otherwise. 

But the perfect circle of a cigarette burn pulled with each movement of his arm, and he still felt like he was on uneven ground, still burning too bright, so maybe he leaned into it.  
Hell, for a minute, he leaned into it a lot. 

Being offered brownies on a plate by a mom, despite ulterior motives.

Being in a house that wasn’t falling apart around him, the sound of happy family life buzzing in the air from the kids downstairs. 

Being looked at like he wasn’t a burden, or a _monster_. With the eyes of someone that wanted him, didn’t despise him.

But it turned on it’s head on him, and he’d known this before, even if he’d been trying not to think about it.  
He knew Mrs. Wheeler had had those eyes for him. Heavy, dark, bedroom eyes that looked a lot like her daughter’s.  
He wondered if that Joanie bitch gave Harrington those eyes before they’d fucked.  
He wondered what look Harrington gave back, when he was hard. 

“Well fancy seeing you here. Billy. Billy Hargrove, it’s so nice to see you again.” 

Mrs. Wheeler purred, leaning casually against the counter, her elbows tucked back against it, breasts pushed forward a bit, the small of her back arched. It was noticeable in her gray silk blouse, with a few buttons undone. 

“I wasn’t expecting you to come for Max until later. Usually you just honk.” She breathed, tilting her head all pretty, showing off her neck, hair tumbling over her shoulder. Blinking big. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

Billy was reminded that it was for a good reason he usually just laid on the horn until Maxine appeared. It was to avoid situations like this. He’d been doing it for months. He’d only been IN the house a few times, actually talking to Mrs. Wheeler, and usually there was a buffer – like someone else floating around.  
Now they were alone.  
He didn’t want to be here. Even if the brownie was good, if not a little too sweet for his tastes. But food was food.

He wondered if she could smell the beer on him. He certainly could. He couldn’t get the smell out of his nose. It was making him sick, but she didn’t say anything about it. Maybe the smell of sweat and cologne had overpowered it. Either way, he didn’t smell like a rose, and he knew it.  
It bothered him.

Billy leaned against the kitchen island, nibbling on his brownie and giving Mrs. Wheeler his most charming smile, lowering his eyelids just the right amount. Sexing himself up a little, a hip jutting out. 

He reminded himself that he had a certain image to preserve, and that was a playboy with the ladies – and honestly unobtainable housewives were a pretty good way to go. Because as far as he was concerned, it would be all bark and no bite, or at least, Jesus, he hoped so, and that was even better for his case that he definitely played for that team. It could work it’s way back to his dad.

Even the lonely cougars were game, at least as far as anyone was concerned.  
Oh yeah, that Billy Hargrove, he was incorrigible with the ladies. 

“Yeah, I’m running a little early. Here for my step-sister. Hope you don’t mind, Mrs. Wheeler.” He flashed her some teeth, wiped clean of chocolate by an attendant tongue. His voice like honey.

“Oh, oh no, not at _all._ ” Mrs. Wheeler said, pressing a hand to her breast and giggling.

Desperate bitch. Billy fought the urge to roll his eyes. Billy’s smile widened instead. Grew a little sweeter. Not at all forced. Nope.

“Did you make these _yourself_?” He chirped, all feigned surprise. 

“Oh, oh yes I did. Guilty as charged!” Mrs. Wheeler laughed, waving a hand, batting her fake eyelashes again. Billy was pretty sure her husband was at work right now. Like his own dad was supposed to have been.

“And please, Billy, call me _Karen.”_

Billy cringed inside. “Of course. Karen. Mmmmm.” He moaned as if in ecstasy over the ambrosial. “Well these brownies are just _delicious_ , Karen. What’s the _secret ingredient_? Hm?” Billy licked his lips. Ticed up the corner. He winked at her. “You can tell me. I can keep a secret.” 

He was all for some harmless flirting back and forth. Hell, he was good at it. It was a skill.

“Oh, you know, I could kiss you right now!” Mrs. Wheeler tittered, blushing pretty, and giggling like a schoolgirl. “None of my kids like my baking. They always complain. Aren’t you so sweet?”

She pursed her pretty pink lips, lipstick a tiny bit smudged, like she hadn’t been just saying that. Like it was an offer, that kiss. Her eyes on Billy’s own mouth. She started walking closer to him. Getting too close. Backing him up against the kitchen island.

“I add a little cinnamon.” She mock whispered, and licked her lips, eyes down. They roved over him from top to tail. Like she was going to devour him. “That’s the secret ingredient.”

Billy loved cinnamon. But Billy was backpedaling. Holy shit she was serious. He supposed he’d known other older housewives that had been serious, deadly so – but none that had children he went to school with. That he knew. 

Billy loved to flirt, but hell, he felt off his game from earlier at the house, so he stood there like a fucking idiot, hip against the counter, feeling it bite into the soft dip of skin above his hipbone. He was reminded of the feeling between the coffee table, Neil, and the sofa. Trapped. 

She wasn’t going to actually do it, was she?

The cigarette burn itched, pulling like a brand as he hooked a hand into his belt, framing his dick. Trying not to make it obvious when he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing almost nervously. 

She was annoying as shit. Was she actually going for this? Right now? In the middle of her kitchen? The little ankle-biters downstairs? She was right in front of him, her perfume cloying, and he didn’t know how the hell this escalated so quickly, but Billy wasn’t exactly putting water on her flames either. 

Because what self-respecting straight boy would reject an older hottie sporting a rockin’ body like that? Right? Right? What would _Billy Hargrove_ do? He didn’t fucking know.

Billy smelled beer hops mixing with her fakey magnolia perfume, clogging his nose. 

The chocolate and cinnamon on Billy’s tongue tasted rancid. 

Billy’s lungs felt too tight, like his air supply had been cut off.

This just wasn’t his day.

He kept smiling sweet as sugar, though, biting his lower lip a little like it was a move, but he was digging his teeth in until it hurt just enough.  
Enough to keep him here, in the moment. Smiling so sweet.

Earlier, he’d heard the kids shouting about some shit downstairs, enough that he’d been able to glean as Mrs. Wheeler was getting him a brownie – they’d been loud enough– that it was about Billy, giving Harrington shit, but the volume was raising higher now and they were all bickering. 

But Billy was distracted.

Because Karen Wheeler was leaning in, all magnolia perfume and smudged lipstick, lifting a hand with perfectly French-manicured nails, her permed hair framing her face just right. 

“You have a little chocolate just there.” Her sweet breath fanned into his face as she was reaching out to him, close enough to kiss him. Smiling with something like hope, she sounded breathless. 

Billy had a way of doing that to bitches. Making ‘em breathless.  
It was like she was gonna kiss him. Or she wanted him to kiss her. 

Alone in the kitchen.  
Her fucking kid downstairs.  
Her hand was too close to his face.  
He didn’t want to be touched.  
Never did after Neil got after him.  
Couldn’t fucking stand it. 

_Stay, stay, hold your ground, don’t you _fucking_ move, you fag._ The voice sounded like his dad’s in his head.

The second her big tits brushed his chest, Billy staggered back all the same, even as he told his body not to do it, to hold his ground, not to be a pussy little queer that liked dick.  
He had no idea what kind of look was on his face in that second, but at the same moment there was shouting from the stairs and the sound of someone pounding up the steps. 

Mrs. Wheeler snapped her hand back like she’d been burned, and Billy reached up to swipe at his face, removing the bit of brownie or whatever – if it had even been there at all – as she was twisting around. 

“Ah, I’ll get you boys some pops. What do you like?” Mrs. Wheeler hurried away, bustling toward the fridge, hiding her face. 

Billy was gonna throw up. No he wasn't. Shit, she was his mom's age. Maybe older.

 _‘I’m not scared of anything!’_ came a muffled shout. Billy knew that voice.

The basement door slammed open, in perfect view of the archway from the kitchen. Right in Billy’s line of sight. His eyes latched onto Harrington like a lifeline. All sizzling blue intensity as he drank the pretty boy in. He had the rough, sweet grate of chocolate on his tongue – rich brownie bits crumbling in the back of his throat as a long slow smile crept across his face. 

Trying not to act like he was out of breath. Or like he’d just bit his lip hard enough to make it bleed.

Licking baked sugar and a bit of copper-tasting blood from his lower lip, Billy’s eyes lit up with the vision of Harrington in the wake of his vision being taken up by Mrs. Wheeler’s hungry eyes. 

Because Billy suddenly felt grounded by Steve Harrington’s presence. And wasn’t that a fuckin’ trip?

If he was being honest, Billy could admit that the appearance of Harrington could not have been better timed. 

Because now, Billy needed an out. He needed a distraction.  
From Karen Wheeler’s advances.  
Even if he shouldn’t, he _shouldn’t._ Fuck.

Either way, Harrington was perfect for the cause. Billy told himself it wasn’t because of…reasons. 

Billy smirked into the brownie with glinting canines as he watched Harrington’s movements, like how a lion might track those of a graceful gazelle from the thin, waving Savannah grass. He knew he looked dangerous, looking at the boy like this. 

And hell, he was _feeling_ a little dangerous. 

He’d never found that fight, driving around in his Camaro. Now he had Harrington in his sights. And he felt like he was coming apart a little. Shit, he felt like he was on the edge of some precipice.  
Like he was back at the edge of the ravine, at the quarry, boots dangling over nothingness and the threat of gravity. Like he was about to start falling and never stop, and Karen fucking Wheeler had just pushed him farther to the lip. The day had started out so good, too.

Harrington froze up like that gazelle, all big doe-eyes, his hands sort of hovering at his sides like he wasn’t sure where he was or what he was doing, keys dangling where they were looped about one thumb. 

Like the last person he’d expected to see on this earth was Billy. Nor did he have a reason to. Mabye he felt guilty over talking about Billy behind his fucking back, like a little rat.

Billy had been in the house long enough to catch floating bits of the conversation – a better term might be argument – from the Wheeler’s basement. But it was enough that Billy was ready to latch onto it, a fight still building in his bones. 

The smile on his face turning sharp. Mean. Vicious, with his back turned to Karen Wheeler. 

Because Billy _knew_ it was about him, and about Harrington, and he’d have to get it out of Harrington. Because he didn’t have the ALL the specific dirty details, Mrs. Wheeler had made sure of that. Not aside from Harrington yelling on the stairs. 

Yelling that _‘he wasn’t scared of anything.’_

Did that mean Billy, too? 

That wasn’t a wise choice. 

Because Billy was a fucking monster. Just like in the book. 

“Hey there, Amigo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -excerpts from 'Frankenstein' by Mary Shelley
> 
> 80's references: https://lemonlovely.tumblr.com/post/174299924641/80s-referencesvisuals-list-13
> 
> I wanted to mention that Neils 'rule' about smoking inside is superfluous, shaky, and hypocritical at best. We've previously seen Billy smoking indoors (dying easter eggs ect) without Neil saying anything. He's just searching for a reason now, and he's drunk. Neil probably smokes indoors too, even if Susan has allergies, although he might wait until she's out of the room or something. It's like making rules that are impossible to keep track of, follow, ect.


	14. Are you done with that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 9th, 1985

Steve stood, frozen beneath Billy’s gaze like that lizard with the stone vision in the kids’ dragons game. Basi-something. Dustin had been talking about it from the Monster Manual. He felt like a child that had been called out for talking about something they shouldn’t, like he was in trouble, even as he tried to remind himself that he hadn’t actually SAID anything. In fact, it had been a lot of not-saying things. 

“ _MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM_!” Mike was screeching from downstairs like he was dying.

That seemed to shake Steve out of his stone statue state, or whatever it was.  
“Hey." Steve said. 

Mrs. Wheeler was backing away from the fridge with a tray full of Squeeze-its and brownies, obviously meant for The Party downstairs. Steve vaguely noticed that she seemed more flustered than usual, a faint sheen of perspiration across her forehead, but honestly he wasn’t paying that much attention – most of that was taken up by one Billy Hargrove.  
He wasn’t the only one with that problem. 

She just sort of pushed a couple Squeeze-it’s at them, muttering something about Dustin finishing up the Coca-cola, and making sure to tell Steve he looked so TIRED. Then she fled, patting her permed locks, delivering the rest of the kids drinks and treats. 

Billy and Steve were left standing there like two idiots holding fuckin' blue Wild Berry Squeeze-Its, staring at each other for a second before Billy leapt into motion again. He immediately shrugged out of his leather jacket, exposing toned, sun-kissed arms. He left it laying across the kitchen counter as he strode towards Steve, one thumb looped into his black leather belt like a cocky son of a bitch. 

Steve loved the Wheeler’s kitchen. At least he used to. He’d enjoyed sitting around with Nancy and her family while they were still dating, invited to supper a couple time a week at least, especially when he was having to help watch Mike and Holly on occasion – teamed up with Nancy, even if they’d been paying more attention to each other than the kids. 

He’d never really had that experience before. It was warm and big and comfortable and _lived in,_ with Holly's drawings stuck to the fridge with alphabet magnets, and little knickknacks that gave it a homey feel. Sitting with a huge bustling family all chatting and complaining and talking over each other, with Nancy and Mike kicking each other under the table, and occasionally Steve on accident.  
Sometimes helping to get baby Holly to eat because Mrs. Wheeler said he had a gift with it or something, even if he felt weird about it. He thought maybe she just liked taking a break from feeding duty, and the rest of the family didn't want to do it, because Holly liked to throw macaroni at the wall. It felt like a long time ago, now.

Eating a homemade meal that someone else had made, even though nothing beat Ms. Henderson’s cooking. Food that wasn’t either a frozen meal in the ginormous freezer in the three-car garage, or fast food, a meal out of a box, or chips and beer. 

Steve hated cooking for one. Fucking hated it.

But now, the kitchen had a weird charge about it. It had the second Steve had closed the basement door, with only Billy and Mrs. Wheeler in there. But the kitchen looked the same – same yellow everything, same woven straw light hanging steady over the kitchen table, but it felt different, like with electricity. 

But not the good kind. A negative charge.

The kind that made the little hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end, especially with Billy stalking towards him like some kind of predator on two feet.

 _“MOM!”_ Mike bellowed like he’d been murdered, obviously offended she hadn’t showed up yet. “Max HIT ME!” 

“I’m coming, _MIKE!_ ” Mrs. Wheeler yelled back at him before she was heading down into the basement bearing brownies and Squeeze-its. She eventually brought him up to the second floor to get him cleaned up, bleeding from the nose. Muttering things about _'that Max Mayfield is a handful.'_

“Kid’s such a whiny little bitch. Gotta get Maxine a fuckin’ root beer float for beating his ass. Had it coming. And you. You’re here, Harrington? This is too good.” Billy looked like Christmas had come early. He was never gonna let Steve live this down. “You actually play that lame ass game with the Whiz Kids? And I thought you were a loser before. What’re you? A gnome?” 

Billy smirked in his face, holding the unopened Wild Berry Squeeze-it by the neck like he might a beer bottle, left handed, ring glinting. Like he just wanted something to do with his hands. He hadn’t really paid the drink that much attention after looking at it once like it was a mystery. 

“The fuck those little shits saying about me? Huh?”

“Well maybe I am. For your information, I’m a…a human, something, Fighter. They fight, obviously, and at a later level I'm apparently going to be a...Champion class…” He could feel himself go a little red. Steve knew he was rambling to avoid the real question. He was good at that. "Look, I dunno, okay? It's their _THING. _So I just play with them sometimes when I have nothing better to do. I don't actually really _get_ most of it. I play it for them, alright?" he muttered.__

____

Billy gave him a look to shut up, saying “I don’t actually CARE,” like he hadn’t just fucking asked, looking thrilled.

“They weren’t saying anything _ABOUT_ you, they –“

“Oh no, _no._ ” Billy shook his head, his mouth tightening as he tilted his head, waving his free hand in the air a bit like an _‘I don’t think so’_ gesture. He clucked his tongue. “Don’t you give me that, Harrington.”

Billy leaned in close, getting too into Steve’s space. The guy had no respect for a personal bubble, and something seemed wrong with him, but when the hell didn’t it? 

“Don't lie. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. I ain’t deaf. I know they was talkin’ ‘bout me. So spit it out.” 

He breathed into Steve’s face, eyes flat and dark in his face. Brow line puckered, pinching a little just above the bridge of his nose – like he was angry, or confused. Steve didn’t break eye contact, just glared back into those hard, icy eyes, chin tilted down a little as he cocked a hand on one hip. 

Steve’s jaw tightened imperceptibly, the word ‘bullshit’ ringing in his ears, wrapping a hand around his throat, making a cold sweat spring up between his shoulder blades – like solid lead in his intestines. It’s not like he had some kind of fucking complex over a stupid word. He didn’t. But that didn’t mean he had to like it, either, and it immediately invited a more sour mood than he’d already been in, having a gang of thirteen year olds suspend him from their goofy little club. 

He didn’t even want to _be_ in their stupid fuckin' club. Dustin had just wheedled Steve’s way into it, and somehow managed to keep him there through guilt trips and buying him sweet things. He even bought him a new Nintendo sports video game as some sort of 'initiation' present, which he knew Steve loved. Steve had only accepted it because it was also a dual birthday present, so whatever.  
And Steve figured if he was always babysitting the little fuckers he might as well be a part of it. Whatever it was. It was their thing, so he didn't especially mind being a part of it, especially since it was so important to them. Even if it didn't make any fucking sense to him.

The familiar, aching, bitter emotion snuck up on him, like a surprise rain shower. Dark and immediate, suffocating. That feeling of fucking 'bullshit.' Steve scowled down at Billy, scoffing a little and flicking his eyes to the side like he didn’t fucking care. Mouth pursed. Before they were in yet another staring match, neither one willing to back down. Like usual. He could feel Billy pushing him, trying to egg him into a fight – in fact, it felt a lot like when Billy had obviously been hunting for a fight at The Byers', on that night when Steve got his ass handed to him thanks to a well-placed plate to the head. 

Billy had already struck a nerve and they’d barely started talking, and Billy, who was always looking to push Steve’s buttons, lit up when he caught sight of his success. 

His dark eyebrows rose up a little, and his eyes got a hair wider, those long ebony lashes fanning out. It made him look fuckin’ nuts. Billy’s tongue started doing that annoying wagging thing like it always did, seemingly only around Steve. Like it was extra eager to mock him, and him alone. 

Steve couldn’t help but allowing his eyes to drop down to it, though, watching it dance for a second before he swallowed and brought his gaze back to Billy’s piercing stare. Losing the staring match. He didn’t need to be thinking about Billy’s wandering tongue. 

Steve couldn’t help but think for a moment of last Friday – the various variations of Friday, really, and the corresponding Billy’s. The emotional whiplash that Billy constantly seemed to give him, especially showing a difference when he had an audience compared to when they were alone. 

The two of them sitting in the grass over a pair of headphones and a Walkman, an almost violent shift from how Billy was giving Steve shit in the showers only a handful of heartbeats before. 

It was like he never, ever knew what he was going to get with Billy – which side of him he was going to be blessed with that particular meeting. 

Christ, after Friday, he’d thought…well…he didn’t know what he’d thought. He’d thought things might have changed. Just a little bit. But he was wrong. He thought again of Nancy telling him Billy Hargrove was nothing but trouble. And he thought of how Billy had said, at the end of their meeting scrawled on a crumpled piece of paper, that he had nothing more to say to Steve. That he wasn’t interested in seeing him around.

“Well?” Billy said. “You got somethin’ you wanna say to my fuckin’ face, pretty boy? Or should I go ask the _Whiz Kids?_ ” 

Billy tilted his head like a harried hawk, leaning in closer still – making his spike earring dangle - he’d been taking a few steps forward, trying to hedge Steve in, but when Steve wouldn’t give away any ground, Billy shoved him in the shoulder – Steve grunted, back bumping the wall near the kitchen table.  
Right by the phone, making the ringer chime softly. 

It wasn’t that hard of a push, nothing worse than what the guys gave each other in the locker room, playfully shoving each other around.  
But Billy didn’t look happy, or playful, for that matter. 

“Dammit.” Steve grit through his teeth. 

He’d just spent how long trying to defend this self-righteous asshole to a bunch of thirteen year olds? HOW long, again? Shit. 

“It’s not. _Bullshit_. Alright?” 

Steve wrinkled his nose a little as Billy got too far into his face, because under the familiar, albeit too-strong stench of Billy’s cologne and the brownie sweet sugar of his breath, Billy smelled like beer. Strong beer. How long had he been drinking for to smell that _pickled?_

Probably since Spring Break started, Steve assumed.

Steve hadn’t seen him since the Friday prior, after all. He must have been partying it up every night - Steve had heard that there was a house party almost every night that week, and who was Billy Hargrove to miss a keg stand? 

“Jesus, you smell like a brewery.” Steve muttered, the bridge of his nose still creased. “How much did you have to drink last night? Is that even FROM last night?” 

It seemed a little early to be drinking enough to smell like he took a damn bath. He didn’t seem drunk, though, or at least not close enough to it for Billy. 

Didn’t seem like he’d been drinking at all…weird.

Billy watched him impassively for a moment, a slow, still mask creeping over his face – eyes a little glazed over – seeming almost…sullen, for a second. Although it must be a trick of his eyes, it makes Steve falter, because he didn’t think he’d said anything too far out of the norm. 

But that look is gone as soon as it was there. Steve thinks he must have imagined it, because Billy was back to normal, eyes aflame, face elastic, mouth too big and sharp, snapping into Steve’s face.

“Don’t avoid the fucking question. I don't like little rats that talk shit about people behind their backs. Doesn't fly with me.” 

Steve threw his hands up, one of them still loosely holding the half-forgotten Squeeze-it as he leaned against the wall. 

Billy was standing in front of him, feet planted like he was waiting for Steve to punch him in the face, or knee him in the gut, or even kick him in the balls – any of those things – and Billy liked his odds. Just waiting for it, consistently working himself up for a fight. Rolling his shoulders. Muscles tightly coiled, ready to spring. Fingers kinda twitchy, itchy for something.

“Look, alright, okay, Je-sus Christ!”  
Steve rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. He didn’t want a fight. He hadn’t even done anything.

He didn’t understand why things could never be simple with Billy. And why, of all times, Billy had to be upstairs while THAT conversation was happening. He had piss-poor luck, that’s why. Billy smirked in triumph, all plastic success. 

“It’s not even that big of a deal, you’re making it into way more than it is. Jeez.”  
Steve looked down to start focusing on opening his Wild Berry Squeeze-It, twisting the top off.

He became slowly aware that Billy was watching his actions with this hyper-aware sort of look. Steve glanced up at him once, and Billy looked down at his own kid’s drink like he hadn’t been looking. Steve finished twisting the cap off, like a key in a lock. 

“They’re just – you fucking scared the shit out of them last fall. I think you know that. It’s not some mystery. Give them a break.” Steve said as he fiddled with the twist-off cap in one hand, and lifted the blue bottle to his lips. "Especially Lucas, man."

Billy was watching him with this rapt sort of attention, tilting his head like a really beautiful buzzard, probably eager for his terribly important answer. Ready to pick the meat from Steve's bones.

“Those little shits still bitchin’ about that?” Billy asked, but it wasn’t really a question.

Steve sighed.  
“Yeah. Yeah they are. They’re bitching _AT ME_ about it. They were just trying to get it out of me why I was hanging out with you the other weekend, considering the last thing they knew, we weren’t really. You know. Talking. Or whatever.”  
Steve shut himself up by taking another shot of blue sugar.

Billy’s chin raised at that, shoulders back, like a challenge, a small frown edging over his lips, that line back between his brows as he stared Steve down. 

His voice was tightly reigned in when he asked, “And what you gotta say about it?” 

Steve rolled his eyes. “Look, I didn’t say anything about it at school, and I didn’t say anything now. Mike can just be a little bit of a drama queen sometimes. Chill out.

“Sometimes?” Billy huffed, like an aborted laugh. “According to Maxine, it’s all the goddamn time.” 

But Billy seemed to be easing back slightly, the rigid rise of his shoulders falling a bit, and he didn’t seem to be as tense as before. It was a minute change, but Steve liked to think he was usually pretty good at reading people’s body language, and interpreting their unspoken signs, even if he wasn’t so great with words. Even if even Billy’s body language tended to be a bit of a mystery to him half the time, too.

He was giving Steve that same look, that same weird one that he’d given him outside the school, when he’d asked him all soft why he hadn’t told anyone. Like it wasn’t a normal thing to keep your mouth shut. But why was it so _important_?

Steve sighed a little. “Look, you – it’s really not a big deal. The whole thing. They’re just stupid kids, y’know? They just wanna know why I’m hanging out with you.”

“Since we ain’t friends.” Billy said all knowingly.

“…yeah. Uh, since…yeah. We aren’t friends.” Steve’s mouth tugged down in a frown. 

Billy scowled.

And they weren’t friends. They weren’t. Saving someone from a party and taking them to get impromptu stitches and sharing a little music did not a friend make. Especially when they pitched a royal fit and almost killed you last fall, when you were only trying to save the world or something. 

“Those little dorks, this really is some small town bullshit. Why they even care?”

“You have no idea. Word gets around pretty fast here. And uh…I dunno. I guess they think you’re gonna murder me or something.” Steve joked. It fell flat. “It doesn’t even matter. They kicked me out apparently.”

“Kicked you _out?_ ” Billy raised a single brow, an amused look on his face. “Of what? Their nerd club? They tried that shit with Maxine, too.” 

“Yeah. Some 'temporary suspension' or some ridiculous shit, hell if I know.” Steve made air quotes.

Steve didn’t want to think about it too closely, honestly. He didn’t want to really examine what he was thinking about that until he was home, alone, in his big empty house. Alone, alone, alone. The fact that even thirteen year olds didn’t want him around. His literal last resort, and he wasn’t good enough for them, either. Even though he kinda liked the little rugrats. Steve felt his face fall a little. Felt it crumple, despite his best efforts. He knew he tended to read like an open book, but he hoped it wasn’t too apparent. Billy watched him with sharp eyes, reading him.

Billy showed his canines, tongue dancing around, then looked at him all mock serious. Like it was actually an issue.  
“Oh, oh yeah, that's you, pretty boy. Judas betraying Jesus. Joining The Dark Side. Can you blame the little shitheads?” 

Steve fought a smile, glancing away. Somehow that single line had cheered him up a little, lightening his mood. “Shut up, man.”

"It's not so bad over here, Harrington."

Billy was kinda fiddling with the peculiarly shaped cap on the Squeeze-it.

“You’ve had one of these, right?” Steve asked. 

Billy glanced up at him, seeming caught out, but his expression quickly shifted to an impassive one.

“ _No,_ Harrington.” Bill gave him a droll look. “I look five years old to you?”

Steve frowned a little. How was that a thing? Hadn’t everybody? But Steve didn’t push it. Maybe they just weren’t Billy’s thing. Obviously he was five at SOME point. But they were pretty new, he knew the kids liked them better than Capri-suns in their lunches. Didn't his parents buy them? For Max, maybe? 

“Oh. Well I mean, no.” Steve said stupidly. 

“There’s no goddamn cap.”

Steve sighed softly, exhaling a breath, and studied Billy, reaching out his hands – he didn’t miss that Billy flinched a little when Steve extended a hand to the bottle.  
Remembered Billy saying _‘two for flinching.’_  
Wondered why he did it.  
He reached out a hand, _slowly,_ to brace it around the bottle, just below Billy’s tentative hold on the neck, and Billy seemed to be practically vibrating with the energy to not step away. 

Like he was about to drop the bottle and step back, fingers avoiding Steve's. Steve frowned a little. What, did he fucking smell or something? Or did Billy actually hate him so much? 

“Here, look, like this.” Steve said gently. Like he was talking to a spooked animal.

He twisted the top of the cap like a key, just like he’d opened his own, popping the top off – he dropped the spare bit of plastic cap into Billy’s other palm. 

“See? Easy.”

Billy scowled, fiddling with the cap for a second, shaped like a Pharaoh’s head-thing. He lifted the newly opened drink to his lips. Tilting the bottle up instead of tipping his head back, glaring at Steve while he did so, like Steve had offended him in some way, instead of helping him. 

As he lowered the drink, he stared at Steve with little to no expression on his rough shaven face.

“Whaddya think?” Steve asked.

Billy got that little dimple of concentration again as he considered his answer, like maybe he thought it was dumb as shit to be talking about this, but he replied anyway.

“It’s okay. Real sweet.” Billy made a bit of a face.

“They're a pretty new thing. Maybe they're not in California yet.” Steve conceded. Maybe that’s why Billy hadn’t tried one before. “The kids like ‘em, they're popular at school.”

Billy shrugged again, not giving away much. Billy drained the thing in a few gulps, then he started chewing on the cap like a weirdo. Like it was gum or something. Steve laughed, felt it bubble out of him. Surprising himself.

“Somethin’ _funny?”_

Steve shook his head, trying to hide a smile, ducking his head a little.  
“No. It‘s nothin’.”

Billy didn’t seem to believe him, looking at him cautiously, with a glint of danger if he felt he was being laughed at.

But it was just ridiculously and strangely endearing, that’s what was funny. Because it had snuck up on Steve when he hadn’t expected it. He hadn’t thought of Billy as being endearing before. Had he?

Had anyone in the history of ever? 

Maybe when he was flirting and laying on that thick layer of faux charm. But that wasn’t…it didn’t seem _real._

Billy _‘hmm’_ ed like a warning not to laugh at him, pale eyes flashing, lips tucked down, but Steve kept smiling stupidly at him, and eventually, Billy’s hard line of a mouth softened, too. Almost imperceptibly. 

Steve had no idea how the tension had drained away, out of the kitchen, funneling away that bizarre negative charge in the air. How it had been loaded like Nancy’s gun when he had walked in and Billy had been on him like a cat pouncing on a mouse, but somehow, Squeeze-it’s had diffused the tension? At least a little. That, and the apparent miracle that Steve hadn’t mentioned that weekend.

It made Steve honestly more suspicious that that weekend wasn’t what it had seemed to be. In fact, it was solidifying in his mind now that there was something ‘nefarious’ about it, as Dustin would say. Jesus he’d heard the word ‘nefarious’ so many times now it was burned into his brain like a ‘ _word of the day’_ from a calendar. The Upside Down was nefarious, demogorgons were nefarious, school-mandated gym was nefarious, Oreos without the creme were nefarious. Green peppers on pizza were nefarious, why did Steve keep ordering them?

Steve was just sort of holding his Squeeze-It, mostly forgotten, gazing at Billy with dark, serious eyes like he was trying to decipher a puzzle. Because once again he was getting that whiplash and it was confusing as hell. Billy Hargrove, obviously nefarious, according to Dustin. Chewing on a Squeeze-it cap.

“Are you done with that? Or what?” Billy asked suddenly, nodding towards the drink in Steve’s hand that he’d barely touched. 

Steve considered it for a moment, and his eyebrows rose slowly as he stared down at Billy.  
“I guess? Why, you want it?”

Billy didn’t say anything.

Steve handed it to him wordlessly.  
He was used to it. Especially when he used to still sit with Tommy and Carol, he was always giving away his shit to them, food or drink, replacing dropped meatloaf or spilled pudding, whatever. Just like how he always gave more of his fries away at the diner to the kids than he actually ate. Or making sure The Party had enough Shark Bites snacks and Goldfish and Jello Pudding Pops when they were at his house, or ordering pepperoni pizza ( _‘The Ninja Turtles only eat pepperoni pizza, Steve! You got GREEN PEPPERS? EUGH! What is WRONG with you?’_ )

Billy tossed the empty, clear plastic bottle towards the trash, sinking it, then started in on Steve’s – clearly clenching the chewed up cap in between his molars so as not to swallow it, too. 

“I guess that’s a yes to liking it, huh?” Steve grinned, leaning his full head of hair back against the wall. 

“’s not bad. Be better with a shot of vodka.”

Then, Billy was tilting the Squeeze-It back like a beer, pinching it at the neck, and bracing his weight into one arm against the wall to the side of Steve’s head – forearm to wallpaper, one hip tilted towards Steve. Steve stayed at the wall, arms folded over his chest in an almost casual posture, even with Billy Hargrove boxing him in. 

Billy seemed to be contemplating him, a weird blue flame in his eyes that made something stutter in Steve’s chest. And the movement, that LEAN, it…it didn’t seem _normal,_ but it FELT _natural._

Billy was really so close to him. Like so, so close to him, and Steve’s senses were invaded by that heady-hoppy scent that seemed to be lingering on Billy, like he was drowning in alcohol, and when Billy licked his lips, his tongue was so blue – like a vibrant, blue-raspberry icee sort of teal blue, and it was staining his lips a little, too, with just a touch of color. 

Billy was close enough that Steve could see it, and it made his breath hitch. Everything was so detailed this up close. He wasn’t sure if they’d been this close before, where Steve could just _look._

He tried to look anywhere else, like down, down at Billy’s half exposed chest, but that was no good either, because it was _too good_ , so he tried to look at the wall clock, but his eyes made a figure 8 back to Billy’s mouth. 

That cheap plastic rim was back at Billy’s blue-tinted lips, and Steve had the most random, inane thought – something that he didn’t think would have normally occurred to him. Not while sharing a drink with another guy. He had to be way more tired than he'd thought. 

But Steve’s mouth had been on it, too. 

He blinks, slowly, hops in his nose and the taste of Wild Berry on his tongue.

His thought is that it’s like an indirect kiss. Like a kiss lovers might share beneath a silver pop can tab. But this would be a _blue_ kiss, a berry kiss. All sugar. 

For some reason, as it has every so often over the past two weeks, Steve thinks of what Billy asked him from his living room floor. If he wanted him. Which had been a ridiculous question, of course. Billy had been drugged. Drunk. He was a dude. They were both dudes. He was just fucking with Steve, like usual.

But for maybe once in ever, Steve can’t raise his eyes up to meet Billy’s, and he immediately feels a red flush stealing over his skin, starting in his cheeks, burning at the end of his nose, and washing down over his neck. Lighting the tips of his ears. Staring stupidly. The blue was like a liquid neon sign, drawing attention.

Billy’s mouth slowly curled up at the edge, the second Squeeze-it drained. Billy continued chewing on the plastic tab, almost lazily around a toothy smile. Knowlingly.

“What you lookin’ at, Harrington?” Billy almost purred. 

Like he KNOWS what Steve’s thinking, but there’s no way. Steve is looking into it too much. He’s good at that – reading into things that aren’t there.

So Steve blurts out, “You’ve got blue shit all over your mouth, Hargrove.” 

To cover up what those thoughts are.  
Before Billy can really read them. Because what the hell was that?

Billy’s tongue darted out to run over his lips, as if he could lick away the blue dye that easily. But even that _tongue_ was blue, a rich, teal blue, like a sweet icee, and Steve blinked sluggishly, mouth hanging open a little. 

Even his straight, perfect white teeth were a hazy, soft blue hue – it brought back that strange, endearing rush Steve had experienced earlier. Softening Billy’s sharp, angry lines and too-bright teeth. Making him mussy, less perfect, more…human. 

Those blue lined teeth flashed in a mock-offended, macho smile when Billy said, “Fuck you, man, so d’you.” 

Steve brought a hand up to his own lips, unconsciously licking them – they were too dry. “Oh, uh – “

 

The front door slammed closed, leading into the hallway where Steve stood in the kitchen, back to the wall, and Billy was immediately wheeling back, crumpling the flimsy plastic in his fist and tossing it to join the first. 

Chewing on the cap still, his dark gaze turning thunderously towards the entryway at the sudden “Mom! I’m home!” 

Steve shook himself a little, like he was shaking off a daydream, to tuck his head around the corner, looking into the foyer. Nancy stood there on the threshold, shrugging out of a light, white denim jacket that she hung on the coat rack. 

She was in all white, actually, with a short skirt and a tank top that hugged her curves, with knee high socks and matching white tennis shoes. She paused when she saw Steve, a fuzzy sweatband wrapped around her forehead, choppy brown hair up in a bright yellow scrunchy. A tennis racket in a case hung from her hand, and she spun it around casually when she caught sight of Steve. 

“Steve! You’re still here. Did you stay to play with The Party?” Nancy asked fondly as she walked farther into the house, a sweet smile on her lips. “It’s weird, because Billy’s Camaro is – “

She stopped dead when she reached Steve, glancing to the side into the kitchen to see the man himself standing there. “Oh.” Nancy said. “Billy.” Sounding put out. “You’re…here.” Of all places.

The look on Billy’s face tightened, going brittle around the edges as his piercing blue gaze landed upon her instead. “Oh. Joanie. You’re…back.” He emphasized the pause, then flipped her off. 

Nancy’s mouth turned all pointy and angry before she started ignoring Billy entirely, zeroing in on Steve alone – like Billy wasn’t there at all. 

Steve glanced back at him in exasperation before giving his attention over to Nancy. Quite frankly he couldn’t really think much more about Billy’s blue tongue so he was looking at Nancy, blinking hard, and trying to focus.  
Trying to find solid ground.

She looked all glowy and soft after her tennis workout, and she was bouncing a little on her toes when she looked at Steve. Like she was happy to see him. Steve smiled down at her, crossing his arms over his chest in something like a self-hug, leaning with only one shoulder against the wall. 

Billy was a few paces away now, and Steve could actually feel that blue gaze melting the side of his skull away. Like Billy was burning holes into the side of his head.

“Hey Nance. You already finished with practice? How’s the team doing?”

“Well we don’t have real practice this week, because spring break. But I went to the courts with Becky to get in some extra time, it was pretty fun.” She glanced at Billy, face falling, a funny look making her nose scrunch up like a little kitten. “Apparently she has a date.” 

Steve just said. “Oh. That’s…okay? Great, I guess?” He shrugged. 

Who fuckin’ cared that Becky had a date? Why was that important?

His thoughts briefly flitted to the party with Billy throwing up the last three years worth of food, and Becky plopping down next to him on the couch despite his ‘leave me alone’ vibes he was pushing off. Snapping Bubble Yum gum bubbles in his ear. Trying to get in his pants again, but it just wasn’t the same old game anymore. 

It felt weird thinking about it with Nancy in front of him.

Nancy just sort of raised her eyebrows and glanced pointedly at Billy from the corner of her eyes. Steve frowned a little and glanced over at Billy. Billy stared back at them, two sets of inquisitive eyes on him now. 

“Told you there were plenty’a bitches in the sea, Harrington.” Billy’s mouth had curled into a sharp, barbed thing. His bright blue eyes flicking between Nancy and Steve, like they couldn’t decide where to land. Didn’t like what they saw.

“Why are your mouths _blue_?” Nancy asked.

“Oh, your mom gave us Squeeze-it’s.” Steve said, distracted.

“Don’t we have any pop left?”

“Dustin drank the last one.”

“It’s fucking soda, you morons.” Billy curled a lip in disdain, muttering under his breath. Steve almost didn’t hear him.

Steve glanced back at Billy, ignoring his comment to suddenly burst out, “You have a date with Becky?”

“At the party on Friday. So?”

Steve chewed on a blue-tinged lip. “Uh. No reason. That’s great. You guys um…have fun.” 

“Oh I plan on it.” Billy smirked, far from reaching his eyes. The corners of his lips curling in a Cheshire Cat kind of way, boasting, gloating. “Think I mentioned, I owe her a favor?” 

Steve’s brows crawled up on his forehead, thinking of Friday, thinking of the favor for someone throwing a crumpled up note at him. That’s right.  
That’s right, Becky was in his class, she sat three rows behind him. She was the one that Billy had been talking about, that he owed a….a sexual favor to.

Steve swallowed, letting that sink in. A party on Friday. _Becky?_

He got a weird mental image of Becky sitting on the too-pink counter at Nicky’s house with no panties, the same pink bathroom where he’d found Billy kneeling on the floor, knees around the toilet. He felt a little sick. He didn’t know why. Just did. 

He didn’t think it was because he’d been with the girl before – he didn’t like Becky. Like, really didn’t like her much. But somehow it settled wrong with him. He didn’t even really like Billy all that much…right? Steve wasn’t a masochist. Whatever that was. 

They weren’t friends. He shouldn’t care. Billy could fuck around with whoever he wanted, like he already had with most of the female body of Hawkins High. The way Steve heard it, Billy honestly got way more than Steve ever did. 

“Oh. Right.” Steve said all dumb. “The favor.”

“First of all, Becky isn’t just some ‘bitch’ and what the hell does that mean? What favor?” Nancy asked, clearly unhappy about being out of the loop. She usually liked to know everything before anyone else did. 

“Didn’t know you two was close. Didn’t know you _had_ friends, besides your little fuck buddies, Joanie.”

“Well _obviously_. I have more friends than _YOU_ anyway.” Nancy snapped. Billy pouted, putting a hand to his chest, all mock wounded. “And _FUCK_ buddies?” She sucked in a furious breath. “Jonathan is my BOYFRIEND.”

“Wasn’t when you were still with Harrington, _was he?_ ”  
Steve didn't understand Billy's apparent fascination with trying to champion Steve over this one subject. 

“Is he _serious_ right now?” She looked at Steve, aghast. "We weren't - I mean- we weren't really still, still, together!" 

Something twinged inside of Steve, but it was an old pain. A phantom pain. He didn't know what they had been. He just knew it was long over now, and he was trying to be happy for her and Jonathan. He just wanted HER to be happy. And if that wasn't with Steve, well...Steve couldn't say that surprised him. Not many people actually enjoyed his presence. And he could live with that. He did every day at home. At school.

Nancy had her ‘I’m gonna kill this motherfucker’ look on her face when she had her finger on a trigger. She just so happened to be holding a tennis racket, instead.

Billy’s mouth snapped open to deliver some line, biceps flexing as he strode towards Nancy, hands out like ‘come at me.’ Steve stepped in between them, hands out. They were gonna kill each other. 

“Woah, guys, take a chill pill. Alright? Shit. Just, don’t worry about it, Nance.” He rested a hand on her shoulder, trying to ease her back as she’d been edging towards Billy. “He knows you’re dating him. He’s just being an asshole, alright? And I mean…well, didn’t you call Becky a slut before?”

“No, YOU called her a slut.” Nancy frowned up at him, a little pout on her lips, and she was flipping the tennis racket around in her hand like she was considering braining Billy with it. 

“Don’t matter if she’s a slut. I’ll fuck ‘er either way.” Billy shrugged nonchalantly, like this was a stupid topic to even discuss. 

“Oh my god! You’re such…such…” Nancy was grasping around for words. “Such BOYS.” She exploded and twisted on her heel to stalk out of the kitchen, swinging her racket at open air as she started to head upstairs. Probably to her room. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, Joanie! The cow wants it! Trust me, she does!” 

Steve didn’t doubt it, the way Becky’d been looking towards the bathroom a few weeks prior. Like she’d prefer Billy over Steve, but Steve would have to do in a pinch. But he also didn’t think that’s what Nancy wanted to hear, either.

"Who does she think asked me to owe the goddamn favor? "

“Nance!” Steve called after her, taking a few steps in her direction. "I, I'm sorry!" 

He hadn’t meant to say anything, it’s just, well, he was pretty sure that was a conversation they’d had together. About Becky being on that notched list in Steve’s ‘belt’ or whatever that Nancy had listed off like a grocery list. Steve hadn’t even STARTED that. That’d been all Nance. 

Even if he had wanted to get into Nancy’s pants then, it had been…it had turned out different than before. With those other girls.

It had started out trying to get her to do strip-flash-cards to see her rack, and ended up with him falling in love…even if she hadn’t.

He’d completely changed around her as a constant, and then she’d left him. And he didn’t know how to handle being like this without her. And it scared him.

“Jus’ let her go, Harrington.” Billy said from behind him, voice stony cold. He sounded closer. “Shit you’re so whipped, it’s disgusting. It’s been what, five months?” Billy laughed again, and it was an ugly sound. He kept his voice low so it wouldn't travel, though. Mrs. Wheeler was upstairs. “She’s got her _hook_ so deep in your balls all she’s gotta do is reel you in. What I been trying to tell you? Move the fuck on. You need to get laid, Jesus. _She_ sure as hell is.” 

Billy was getting up in Steve’s space again. Crowding him like before, when he’d pushed him against the wall, but coming up from behind, making Steve twist around to get Billy in his sights. 

“It’s not like that, alright? I don’t _want_ to date her anymore. She can do whatever she wants. _Whoever_ she wants. It was fine, alright? It was okay. I _have_ moved on. _I’m_ fine. You want me to stay out of your business, you can fucking stay out of mine.” 

Billy blinked at that, but otherwise seemed unmoved as he purred, “You’ve got it, _King Steve._ ” 

King Steve, Billy’s favorite person, apparently. Making an appearance. 

Billy was right. Christ, Steve needed to get laid. He hadn’t fucked a girl since he’d…been with Nancy. One floor above the kitchen, almost directly above them. Because he tried not to think of the word 'making-love' anymore when it came to Nancy. Just fucking, screwing, boning, whatever else but that. He probably needed to get his dick wet. Bad. Yeah, that was it. If he just got laid, he wouldn’t be thinking about blue lips and indirect kisses and ridiculous shit that didn’t make _any_ fucking sense.

“Y'know what, Hargrove? You’re right. I _do_ need to get laid.” Steve snapped. “Thanks for the advice, asshole.” He didn’t know why he was so upset. He just was.

Billy looked like he'd been slapped. The cuckoo clock on the wall burst out of it’s cubby hole, screeching at them, making Steve jump – _really_ jump – his heart suddenly in his throat, pounding there like a humming bird’s, eyes huge, and his hands suddenly felt tingly. It’d taken him by surprise. Billy stared down at him, visibly confused at why Steve was so jumpy, lips parted. Steve tried to rope in his galloping heart, to silence it. The clock _cuckoo-ed_ six times.

Punctual as ever, the basement door opened, and Dustin staggered out into the hallway holding his big box of lizards. Tadpoles. Whatever. Steve shoved his hair out of his eyes, pushing it back as he glanced back at Dustin. Dustin was peeking over the corner of the cardboard box, just enough to see Steve – but Billy was just out of his line of sight.

“OH. MY. _GOD_. Steve, dude, I was seriously trying to save your ass down there but you’re _NOT_ making it very easy on me, y’know? Because Billy Hargrove? Really? You are gonna tell ME though, right? Your best friend? Dustin? C’mon.” 

He tilted the box a little more, bringing Billy’s compact frame fully into sight. Steve saw that single eye go wide beneath the brim of his cap, and that little curl of a smile fell. Billy was staring right at him, seeming both perplexed by the huge box, and pissed off at Dustin’s big fuckin’ mouth.

“Ooooooh. Billy. Oh. WELL. I...really have to be going now. So.” Dustin breathed, then started rapidly penguin waddling with his box towards the door, eyes straight forward, hissing a mantra of ‘ _shit, shit, shit, shit, Steve open the door, Steve, shit, open the door, shit shit shit….Steve...’_

"I'm comin', hang on." Steve sighed and rolled his eyes, scrubbing a hand over his face, once more through his hair, and then started following after Dustin to help get the door. Billy followed them.

He glanced over at Billy once, mouth tasting bitter as he held the door open before he helped get his hands under the other end of the box. 

“Have fun with Becky. She’s a screamer.” King Steve said like he might say 'good luck with _that'_ , sporting a hard-edged, crooked half smile, eyes dark. He winked.

Dustin was still muttering under his breath, not paying attention.

The door clicked closed behind them in Billy's face, leaving only his muffled, furious yell for Maxine to get her ass upstairs.


	15. Are you still awake?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for an (unloaded) gun
> 
> April 12th - April 13th, 1985

Billy ran his fingertips through the choppy, shorter curls at the back of his skull – tracing them over the bumpy ridge of old scabbing where his head had hit the corner of a door. Testing to see how tender it was, how far along the healing was. It would be gone soon, he thought. Nothing more than a scar and a memory. 

It had been a bitch trying to pull out the makeshift floss stitches himself about a week before, especially when he couldn’t see what the hell he was doing with a pair of nail scissors and a hand mirror. Wincing at the tug in his skin as he pulled the bits of floss out by hand. 

He wasn’t gonna ask Maxine to do it, and he sure as hell wasn’t going back to the Byer’s place. He didn’t want to see that woman again. Didn’t like the way she made him feel. Didn’t like that Mr. Cellophane look she gave him with those big eyes, didn’t like her hands on him like he weren’t some piecea shit. Like he meant something. Like a lie. So he’d done it himself. 

Billy let his hand drop from the bump of a soon-to-be scar, leaning against the counter of the bathroom with his dark wash jeans, hooking his hands against the edge as he went in closer to his reflection, tilting his head as he searched his face for any remnants of bruises – they were gone, really. Ghosts of yellow in a few places, but nothing more. 

He tilted his head down a little, resting his forehead against the mirror, eyes closing for a brief second. Breath fogging the glass in little puffs. 

He could hear the TV blaring from out in the living room, and his old man was bitching at Maxine about it, telling her to turn it the fuck down and what the hell kinda shit did she think she was watching? 

Billy knew she was watching Family Ties ‘cause she had a thing for mooning over Michael J. Fox – knew, ‘cause he’d just been watchin’ it with her. He heard the TV go dead as his pops turned the box off. Neil had been a real picnic all week – since he’d shown up drunk as a skunk halfway through spring break, and onward. Billy didn’t think he’d gotten sober once. 

He hadn’t been going to work, and he wouldn’t talk about why, neither. But Billy knew why. He’d figured it out pretty damn fast after that first day. Neil must’ve gotten laid off, it was the best explanation for him fuckin’ around the house all week, all day. Nippin’ at Billy’s heels and breathing down Maxine’s neck. Ticked off at everything and taking it out on them. Briefcase lying absently by the door. 

Susan wasn’t here. She’d gone shopping or some shit out with her mom in Chicago, and they were staying for the week on vacation. Maxine was supposed to have gone with them, but she’d wanted to stay in town for break to hang out with her little nerd friends and play their little nerd game and go to their little nerd arcade. 

Billy wished she’d gone, especially now, with the way his pops had been acting. It made Billy nervous as fuck, even if he wouldn’t say it. 

His dad had had an Old Milwaukee in his hand from morning to night – waking up with one in his hand, going to bed and leaving a half empty can on the nightstand. Finishing it flat in the morning to not let it go to waste, and to kick start his buzz bright and early. 

Fuck, he wished Maxine had gone with her mom. 

Billy’s wristwatch started beeping. Telling him the food was done. Billy straightened and pressed the tiny button on the side off, making the lit up, digital rectangular face go dark. Maxine was probably gonna leer at him and ask him if he’d been takin’ a shit he’d been in here so long. 

He just didn’t want to go back out. Hell, at this point, he _WANTED_ to go to school instead of having to be stuck at the house with the storm brewing there over his old man’s head.

Billy sighed, scratching absently at the back of his skull where the scabs were itching like a bitch and finally left the bathroom. Left the cracked yellow tiles in the shower, the faded floral curtains, the clean towels that still smelled like mildew. The jar of Maxine’s bright colored hair ties and little animal shaped barrettes her mom liked to attack her with, and his pop’s straight razor with the wood handled, silver tip shaving brush stuffed into a chipped glass. Right next to his mustache comb and styling wax. 

When Billy got back out into the kitchen, the house was too quiet with the TV off, and it looked like Maxine had fucked off to her room. His pops was sitting at the kitchen table, with Susan’s little lace doily sporting the ceramic vase in the middle – full of wilted daisies since Susan wasn’t there to replace them or throw them away, and apparently they were all too lazy – shoved to the side. 

Neil was busy cleaning his hand gun, all taken apart into bits and pieces. Sipping at his Old Milwaukee silently. It wasn’t out of the norm. But Billy could feel those shark eyes on his back as he went to the oven and spun the dial to ‘OFF,’ grabbing an oven mitt to pull out the three Banquet, Salisbury Steak foil wrapped TV dinners. 

He peeled the foils off the tops and trashed ‘em, giving the food a second to cool while he poured three glasses of milk for the table. Double-checking the expiration date. The center of his shoulder blades itched as his old man watched him, scrutinized him. Billy felt his shoulders curling, hunching out of instinct as he grabbed the Strawberry Nestle Quik canister out of the cupboard, dumping a few scoops into Maxine’s cup and stirred it real quick. 

“Maxine, get your ass out here if you want food!” Billy hollered.

“Watch your tone with your sister.” Neil said.

Dangerous quiet. Cleaning his gun. Billy had a _‘not my sister’_ on the tip of his tongue, and wasn’t Neil just shouting at her about the TV? 

“You look like some fags housewife, walking around like that.” Neil grunted, clearly annoyed. 

Dinner in the Hargrove household. Billy’s favorite time of day.

“Oh yeah, just let me throw on Susan’s apron, shit.” Billy grit his teeth as he threw two of the TV dinners down on the table, and set his old man’s carefully down next to him, alongside the broken down, black pistol. Next were the glasses of milk, two white, one a vivid strawberry pink.

“The hell you just say?” The gun made a clicking sound. Billy put his head down.

“Well Susan ain't here, and we’ve gotta have something to eat. Maxine needs to eat.” Billy muttered, like an explanation, more reserved. Susan wasn’t here to cook her shit food, and there wasn’t much in the cupboards. 

“Not if you have that attitude, you don’t.” Neil disagreed. Billy swallowed. He didn’t like that game.

Maxine flounced out of her room and into the kitchen to plop down into her seat, automatically in front of the Quik – the chair she always sat in. Susan’s stood empty.

Billy settled into his own, immediately starting in on his food before it could get thrown down the disposal, even though it was still too hot to eat, letting off wisps of steam. He shoved the scalding food into his mouth as Neil and Maxine looked on in disgust at him harfing it down. 

Maxine began to cut into her mystery-meat ‘Salisbury steak’ more slowly, watching him all funny out of the corner of her eye. 

“Uh, thanks for dinner. I guess.” She told him. 

Billy shrugged and grunted into some mashed potatoes as Maxine reached out to grab her strawberry Quik. She looked at it for a moment, as if lost in thought, then slowly took a sip. Giving herself a milk mustache that Billy normally would have given her shit for, but instead he was almost inhaling his mushy peas and carrots, not really looking at either of them, just at his food. 

Neil was cutting his so-called ‘steak’ into these perfectly square, bite-sized pieces. Letting it cool. Taking his time. The wilted, sad little daisies partially blocked Billy’s view of him. Billy’s tongue was burned.

“Haven’t I told you to show some respect, and wear a proper shirt at the kitchen table? For Christ’s sake, it’s like talking to a brick wall.” Neil said. 

Billy cleared his throat and took a sip of his milk, trying to wash the half-solid food down his gullet. 

“Sorry sir.” He said, not meaning it, fiddling with his fork, chewing on the inside of his cheek. 

He was wearing a faded, acid wash denim vest – once a jacket, with the sleeves torn off. Leaving ragged hems, and a bare chest between the lapels. 

“Are you leaving the house tonight?” 

“…I have a date.” Billy said after a moment. 

“With who?” A loaded question. 

Maxine was looking between the two of them like it was a tennis match.

“Chick named Rebecca.” 

Neil grunted in some kind of assent that it was a female. Sipped his Milwaukee instead of the milk, leaving the frothy glass untouched.

“How much are you paying this one?” 

Billy shoved more of the Salisbury into his mouth, torn into a ragged strip with his fork. Busied himself chewing. He didn’t answer. 

That was one of his pops favorite games, asking about the whores Billy went out with. How much was he paying them to blow him, for him to dick ‘em down. ‘cause no self respecting Christian girl would be with Billy Hargrove willingly. No, he’d have to pay an extra twenty for kisses or mouth stuff. Red light district bitches were the only way Billy’d ever get any action, obviously, even if there wasn’t no kinda place in Hawkins. 

No one would love him if he weren’t stuffing bills into a g-string. Who would actually like a piece of shit like Billy Hargrove, was what Neil was saying. He was probably right. It made Billy want to retreat back into his room, double-check his reflection. Make sure he looked okay. Maybe put on more cologne, look better, smell better.

Neil seemed satisfied with his silence. Billy chewed on his lip for a second. It seemed too easy. Usually Neil worked to make it so Billy couldn't go out. Make him clean or something, just to mess with his plans. At least make him work for it. Seemed too easy.

“And what about tomorrow?” Neil asked. 

Billy’s gaze finally flicked up from where he’d kept them downcast at his foil TV dinner. Maybe in something like surprise, ocean blue eyes widening a fraction, lips pursing. He swallowed his half-chewed meat, half forgotten on his scalded tongue. For a second, he felt his heart stutter in his chest, and he swallowed again, even though there was nothing left in his mouth, Adam’s apple bobbing. 

He tried, almost desperately, to think of the last time his pops had asked him about his birthday. Or even acknowledged it. He tried to stamp out something that bubbled like hope in his belly, twinging around his heart. 

What about tomorrow? They weren’t…they didn’t do birthday parties. Not, not like he’d want one anyway. But no one had said anything. Never did. Not in years. Billy’s face was perfectly still, blank, as the gears in his mind spun rapidly behind his empty eyes.

Billy shifted in his seat, feeling like he was on fragile grounds if he said anything wrong. 

So he just said, “Sir?” 

Maxine directed her gaze towards Neil curiously as she made her mashed potatoes into a pointed volcano with Salisbury gravy, not really eating them. 

Neil drummed his fingertips on the vinyl wood grain tabletop impatiently, taking a bite of his mashed potatoes with the other. Watching Billy with a droll look.

“You think I’m a fuckin’ idiot, boy?” Neil asked, a threat in his words.

Fuck yeah, Billy did, but he thankfully didn’t say so. He shook his head silently, clenching his jaw shut so that the words wouldn’t come out. Cheek muscles working.

“You think I don’t know what you’re planning?” 

Billy blinked. The hope of…something else, died a quick death.

“Planning?” Maxine asked. “What’s tomorrow?” 

Maxine wanted to spend her birthday at the Roller Cove in Indianapolis with the rest of the Whiz Kids – she hadn’t shut up about it. Made sure everybody knew when her birthday was comin’ up in a couple months. Well, in August, which was apparently close enough for Maxine.

Billy remembered that shit. When her birthday was. Even if she didn't remember his. He may not say much, but he always listened. She also wanted new rollerblades for her birthday to wear to the rink – they used to go rollerblading back home. She’d always wanted to follow him everywhere back then, like a real annoying little puppy. That was how she'd first gotten introduced to the skate park by the beach, before wanting her first board. That's about when she'd hung up her blades. She didn't have any that fit now.

Felt like a long time ago, now, slicing along the sidewalks lining the golden beaches, sunlight sparkling off the water like a thousand diamonds. The sun hot on his bare shoulders. Like another life. One that didn’t smell like cow shit, regret, and cold ass snow.

Neil leaned into his rickety seat, tilting his Milwaukee back, chugging it, as he rested his other hand causally on his dismembered hand gun. Watching Billy all flat-like beyond the aluminum. He always reminded Billy of a shark when he looked at him like that. Dark, dead eyes.

The poorly chewed meal in Billy’s stomach turned over, turned sour. 

Billy knew what this was about. 

He hated how his old man always just…knew. Just knew shit. How did he do that? It fucking ticked him off. 

And he…honestly, his birthday was in about six hours, but he still hadn’t entirely decided. He hadn’t. He wanted to go home. He wanted to go back to Cali. He wanted to get the fuck away from his old man and the oppressive rules he lived beneath. And the second he turned eighteen, he’d thought more times than he could count of loading up the Camaro and just driving out of this piece of shit town, never looking back. It was so goddamn tempting.

But he’d been rethinking it, over and over, trying to decide what was best. Because he wanted to get away from his dad and bumfuck-nowhere, Indiana, but he also wondered if he should finish off his diploma first. He didn’t really care that much about school. Wasn’t really planning on going to college, he supposed. But his grades were…actually pretty good. Not that he had to try.

But college? He figured he could get that shit worked out once he was in Cali, once his life was back in order and he had his feet under him. Once he actually had a job without Neil’s say-so about school and watching Maxine. Not unless a miracle came through and he got a basketball scholarship or some shit. Doubtful, though – not a lot of scouts out here in the rural ass crack of America.

His diploma could be helpful though, for jobs or whatever, even if he ended up working in a car shop and didn’t need one much. That was a skills based job. Honestly, it was only one more month. Maybe his pops wouldn’t kill him in that month. Maybe. Billy dropped his gaze to that callused hand lying on the butt of the gun. Maybe. He knew a threat when he saw one. A threat if he ran.

He knew how Neil liked to keep him in place, keep him under his thumb. Keep control over him. Always had. Liked havin’ a free babysitter for Maxine, too, Billy figured.

Billy hadn’t decided. But he was leaning towards staying. Just for the month. Then he’d blow this fuckin’ shit pop stand and get the fuck across the country. He thought he had just enough money hidden away where Neil wouldn’t find it, ‘cause Lenore got pretty shit gas mileage and he’d need every penny.

Not like gas was so expensive, but he’d be filling up a lot, just like he had on the way here – following his dad’s huge fuckin’ Ford truck, and Susan’s little scrapper Honda at such a slow pace he thought he might die. She drove like a grandma half in the grave. He’d save half the time getting home driving at his own set speed.

Billy’s foil tray was empty, scraped clean – the food buried in his belly before it could be taken away. He might throw it all up now.

“I ain’t doing nothing tomorrow.” Billy said, trying not to glare at his old man from beneath furrowed brows (not really succeeding), and he was pretty sure it was honest. 

“Don’t you give me that bullshit.” Neil snapped. “You’re finishing out your diploma, you hear me?” 

Billy ground his teeth together, crossing his arms across his chest as he leaned back in his seat, too, mirroring his dad. 

Maxine had this big ole’ confused look on her face, nose all scrunched up like she’d snorted a bug up it, and her upper lip was curled – still with a ring of strawberry milk around it. Looked like the Wheeler kid with a stink face like that.

“Why wouldn’t he finish it?” She asked, annoyed to feel left out of the topic.

“Your brother was planning on running back to California. Abandoning his responsibilities here like the piece of shit he is. But he’s not going anywhere. Are you, William?”

Neil belched low, and took another long drag of his Milwaukee. It seemed almost empty. It took a lot to get the man under the table, though, and he wasn’t close. 

“Boy, I asked you a question. Tell me you understand.”

“What?!” Maxine suddenly shouted, hitting the table, rattling the dishes. “Leave?”

Neil glanced at her sharply, mouth dipping low. Billy, too, with a warning to cut it the fuck out.

Maxine was staring at him all big eyed. “What?” She repeated. “Why? You can’t go back home!”

The hell? He’d figured that’s what she wanted. For him to fuck off and never show his face around her again. That had seemed pretty obvious when she almost knocked his dick off with a bat full of goddamn nails. 

He clenched his arms tighter over his chest, the coiled muscles of his forearms rippling once. Trying to draw Neil’s attention back to himself from Maxine, he said, “I understand.” Gritting out the words like stones between his teeth. 

Fuck, he hadn’t even been going to do it. He didn’t think.

Billy scowled over at her. He did NOT want to have this conversation with his old man sitting across the table. He wanted to finish getting ready for his date and get out of this house.

Maxine’s mouth snapped open again.

“I ain’t talkin' about this with you, Maxine.” Billy growled in a low voice, a warning, trying to get her to shut it.

“No! Because…uh, because The Night Stalker will kill you!” Maxine said all crazy, her eyes bugging out of her head. 

Billy rolled his eyes, grabbing his foil tray up and downed the rest of his milk, trying not to let it curdle in his belly with the rest of his food. He’d eaten too much too fast and chewed too little. 

“Night Stalker ain’t gonna kill me, he’s goin’ after chicks and stupid little girls like you. ‘sides, I’d fuck that psycho up. Let him try.”

“He’s on a killing spree, Billy! You don’t know that! He’s been around Orange County! That’s RIGHT outside Oceanside!” 

“Like you even care? Jesus, you gotta stop watching those crime shows.” Billy muttered as he shoved his tray into the trash under the sink, rinsing out his glass and leaving it to dry in the rack. “Look, I ain’t going, okay? That’s what I just said.” 

“You’re goddamn right you aren’t. Hargrove men aren’t quitters.” Neil said, starting up on polishing the gun parts again. “We finish what we start. I don't expect you to ruin my good name in this town, too, as some high school drop out. You aren't going anywhere.”

At this point Billy thought it was probably clean or whatever, and the man was just doing it for show now. Billy wondered if Neil started cleaning the damn thing with this conversation in mind. 

“You have responsibilities here, to your family and your sister, and my son will NOT be dropping out of high school like some delinquent. And with that hair, you look like enough of a girl. Maybe he kills faggots, too. Let’s hope so – they’re taking over California, goddamn cockroaches. Don’t have to worry about it out here.”

He smiled at Billy real sweet. Like maybe it wouldn't be so bad if Billy was murdered with a tire iron by a serial killer, and Billy was on his own out here in the start of the bible belt. No gays allowed. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck, that saccharine smile, turned up beneath Neil's perfectly trimmed waxed mustache. 

Billy twisted on his heel, feeling nauseous, and too itchy in his skin. Like he could crawl out of it. He could hear the metallic click of hand pistol parts behind him being reassembled. 

“I’m going to get ready.” He spat out and started towards his room. 

“I expect you back at a reasonable hour.” Neil replied cooly, mustache twitching. “William.”

Shit.

“Yessir.”

 

Before Billy left, he finished cleaning up after dinner, then he spent some time in front of his dresser – the broken one that he’d picked up in front of that house with a ‘for free’ sign, having replaced the old milk crates. He didn’t know why he’d worked on improving the room after they’d initially moved in that first month – knowing he would be leaving in June at the latest.  
But he had. Wanted it to feel like home, maybe, even if it wasn't. Home was just a word.

It was better than it had been last October – more music posters taped on the walls than just Metallica, like AC/DC, Rolling Stones, Def Leppard, Motley Crue and Scorpions, alongside more beach babes with tits hanging out of their barely-there string bikinis, or bitches leanin’ ‘em over some wet muscle car covered in suds. There were so many now they almost plastered the walls like wallpaper, along with ads he liked that he’d ripped out of magazines for free. It was starting to look more and more like his room back in Oceanside. Tape cases piled high, along with nudie magazines taking up residence in the bookshelf. 

Head bobbing to Slayer, Billy stood in front of the mirror and got his hair just right, teasing out the coiled ringlets in the front, and then freezing the curls in place with Aquanet. He patted on more Jovan Musk, right at his jugular – he’d had to replace it from Main Street Drug after breaking the last one - and rubbing some down the crotch of his jeans for when he was with Becky later, shivering at the cool touch. Just a little. Checked out his ass in the mirror.

He snapped off his tape player, cutting off the _Show No Mercy_ cassette, mid-line of _Aggressive Perfector_ , then went out to Maxine’s door. His pops was watching _‘M*A*S*H’_ like he usually did in the evenings, especially when he’d been drinking. Probably having some Nam flashbacks or remembering old war buddies or whatever it was he did, even if it wasn’t the same war. Laughing at stuff that wasn't even funny.

Billy barged into Maxine’s room without knocking, like usual. Her head snapped up as she frowned up at him, all miffed and blowing a fluff of red hair out of her face – she was tightening the wheels on her board, sitting cross-legged on her bed.

“Haven’t you heard of _knocking?_ What’s your damage?” She snapped at him.

“I’m headin’ out.” Billy said. “Just…stay in your fuckin’ room, alright? Don't come out 'till I'm back.” 

Maxine made a huge stink face at him, rolling her pale blue eyes, her hair all lit up like fire by the seashell-covered lamp behind her. She’d made it last year out of old shells they’d picked up down by the San Diego area. 

“Ugh, like I wanna watch _M*A*S*H_ with your _dad.”_ She scowled. “Why though?”

“Just do it, Maxine. And we’re going grocery shopping tomorrow before your ma gets home.” Billy snapped, and closed the door behind him with a click. 

The last thing he heard was her high, mocking _‘Enjoy your daaaate, asshole’_ through the thin, cheap-ass door. 

Lenore's tires squealed as he pealed away from the house. He wasn’t running. He wasn’t.

 

Billy was distracted. By probably a million and one things, all flitting through his mind, taking up too much of his brain when all he wanted to do was to block all of it out with the sound of skin on skin.

He was thinking about leaving.  
He was thinking about not leaving.  
He was thinking about how he had left Maxine at home, alone with his dad.  
He was thinking that was another reason why he shouldn’t leave town. Maxine.  
He was thinking that he’d needed to fuck somebody.  
He was thinking he needed to get out of his own head, and into his body.  
He was thinking about Harrington saying he needed to get laid.  
He wasn’t thinking about Harrington.  
He was thinking about money.  
He was thinking about whores.  
He was thinking about gas mileage.  
He was thinking about his birthday.  
He was thinking about the fact that no one cared.  
He was thinking about the click of a gun being reassembled.  
He was thinking about the fucking Night Stalker serial killer.  
He was thinking that he hated it here.  
He was thinking that he hated doing what he was doing.

It was incredible how easy it was to establish your reputation as a womanizer without actually having to do much real womanizing. 

You banged a few chicks, even when you could hardly get it up with your hands on too-soft jello tits, and word spread that those girls got dicked down by Billy Hargrove. Suddenly, a lot more of them had also felt that sweet, sweet tender loving Cali-boy embrace. Even if he didn’t have a particular recollection of it, apparently. 

But he let those rumors run rampant, watched them burn like fire through any doubts that might possibly crop up. Hell, he encouraged ‘em. Watched them loop back to his pops on repeat, like a broken record. Rinse and repeat. He didn’t want California to happen again. Not again.  
Shit, he missed California but he also…didn’t. Not after what had happened. It left a bad taste in his mouth. At least here they’d gotten a fresh start, like Neil had said.

Becky Winslow was tenacious, and she didn’t stop, like a tornado –a natural disaster - he fucking hated that, too. She’d been riding his ass for months, or at least, definitely trying to.  
Apparently she’d finally succeeded in getting Billy to ride hers. It was a distraction he’d thought he’d needed. Skin on wet skin.

He’d flipped her over onto her hands and knees on the mattress so he couldn’t see her tits, as he wielded her hip one-handed, covering her wild blonde Madonna hair with his other and visualizing soft brown instead. Otherwise there was no way he could have gotten it up. 

He’d given her an inch and she’d taken a mile, because he had an image to preserve, a façade to keep up, and quite frankly – after the other day in the Wheeler kitchen, after that shitstorm of a day, he just needed to lose himself – and if he needed to use Becky to do that, he’d take it. 

And fuck him because that asshole Harrington was right.  
This girl was a screamer.  
Yeah, that pleasant little warning had let him know that this cow was Harrington’s _sloppy seconds,_ and somehow that just made it so much _worse._

The whole house party had to know what they were doing right now, which only helped his case, but Jesus Christ, what was the matter with this bitch?  
Sounded like he was impaling her or some shit, but she kept coming for more, crying for it, so it wasn’t like he was hurting her. 

He could actually somehow visualize Tommy Hoult standing there with his ear pressed against the door, guffawing at their friends about how good Billy was giving it to her. Was making his cock go soft all over again. 

That was the last thing he needed, to have impotency issues getting around, especially in the middle of doing the deed. As far as anyone else was concerned Billy Hargrove walked around with a raging boner almost 24/7. He didn’t get soft while he was fucking a bitch. Shit. 

“Shut the fuck up.” Billy snapped at her, carrying on like a banshee. 

She was actually loud enough he didn’t think she heard him, especially not with the muffled music outside adding to it.

Billy rolled his eyes into the back of his skull. He tried closing them. Tried to block out the image of her too-slender back, the line of her spine, the delicate dimples above her ass. Fake-bake skin. Instead, his mind supplied a broader back, jutting shoulder blades, wider, squared off hips that he could really get a good grip on, as he rocked his own with more force. Moved 'em faster. Thinking of freckled, soft pale skin instead.  
Brunette locks wrapped up in his fingers replacing peroxide blonde. 

Billy tried not to think about why, or examine that too closely.  
But he knew that he hated it. He hated that he hated this, all of it, from the smell of her overwhelming perfume to the way she cried out for more. He just HATED. Sometimes he felt like he was nothing but hate, just bundles of nerve endings wrapped in it. 

Hate. That’s all he was. It was suffocating, all smoldering flames in his lungs. 

And Becky just kept on going, begging for it, _harder, faster, Billy, Billy, uh, please, blah blah blah._ Couldn’t shut up. Even as his mind supplied images it shouldn’t, he couldn’t block out her lusty, soprano high opera impressions. 

Christ he couldn’t do this shit. Something like nerves, or anxiety, shuddered somewhere deep in the core of his chest. Stole the heat from his stomach. He couldn't keep it up. This...problem, was getting worse with time.

 _“Shit.”_ He pushed the back of her head, all messy blonde locks tangled up in his fingers, face down onto Nicky’s parents bed and pulled out, leaving her ass-up in the air. 

Billy tugged the very empty, slick rubber off and tied it off like it was actually full, before he tossed it in the wastebasket.  
Tucked himself away in his black wash jeans, zipped up his fly, and pulled out a Marlboro from the pack in his back pocket.  
He needed a smoke. 

Becky, her pleather tube skirt bunched up around her hips, teal blouse unbuttoned, lacy bra absent, twisted around to stare at him, those gray eyes wide, highlighter-pink lipstick smudged all the way up to her cheekbone like a messy paintbrush stroke. He knew he had it all over his damn face, too. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth in disgust.

“You - wha?” She asked breathlessly, sounding faintly raw from all that fucking velociraptor screeching. “You came?” She asked all confused, making this cutesy ass little pout. She still had gum in her mouth. She started smacking it again out of pure habit. “But I’m not done yet.”

“Yeah. I look like I fuckin’ care, bitch? Rub one off. You got what you wanted.” 

Billy sneered at her, snapping his Zippo once with a flourish of his wrist to light up, puffing a few times to get it going. Breathed out a mouthful of smoke. As long as HE got off, why should she care? Even if he technically hadn’t, she didn’t know that.

Becky blinked at him, like she was trying to work out a really hard equation in her head about what he was telling her. “You mean like…you wanna watch?” She said all slow as he took a real long drag, staring at her with stony eyes. 

Fuck no he didn’t. 

It was one in the morning on Saturday. Billy had been eighteen for one hour. What a shit way to start a birthday. He wanted to get the fuck out of there. Out of this room, out of this house, out of Hawkins. 

He didn’t say nothin’. He just twisted on his boot heel and left her there, as she started hunting around for her discarded bra, pouting. 

Billy didn’t find Hoult with a glass pressed against the door, shockingly, but he wasn’t far away, either. He was just down the stairs, the stairs that Harrington had half dragged him down a few weeks prior. Tommy was leaning against the banister, arms folded over his puffed up chest, smiling all cheeky up at Billy with a toothpick hanging from his mouth.

He looked like he’d just gotten done bragging to the other two guys with him, Angus and Lee, ‘cause they grinned up at him all stupid too. Carol was tucked underneath Tommy’s arm, one hand buried in the back pocket of his jeans, but she wasn’t looking at Billy. 

“The king's returned!" Hoult crowed. A few people cheered, and Billy could feel a couple girl's eyes raking over his body appreciatively. Curiously. Obviously spurred on by the show he'd put on with Becky. "So how was she, man?” 

He actually raised his hand for a high five, like the tool that he was. Billy ignored him.  
Drew the cig from his mouth lazily, all cock and bravado and maybe some pretty warranted disgust. He had standards. 

“Like fucking a goddamn cop siren.”

Carol was busy mouthing on Hoult's neck, clearly trying to pull his attention. “C’mooon Tommy, quit bragging about Billy’s conquests, and let’s go somewhere private and you can conquer _me_ instead.”

“Oh dude, okay tell me later, huh? My lady calls. Remind me to thank you!”

Hoult smirked over at Billy with a toothy grin, removing the toothpick from his mouth and flicking it on the floor. “Ooooh all that screaming and moaning turn you on, baby?” He asked his girl.

"Oh! Unh! Billy! Harder!" Carol was laughing, her voice mocking and high as she imitated Becky, already dragging Hoult away by his belt loops, tongue between her teeth, brows waggling. "Oooooh Billy! Faster!" Hoult joined in some kinda alien voice or something. 

Hoult did that giggly donkey impression briefly at Billy before Carol tugged him into what might have been a coat closet, both of them laughing into each other’s mouths.

Billy didn’t care. But he was probably gonna beat the shit out of Hoult later. He was in a piss poor mood, with the smell of bad sex and Becky’s too-strong Obsession perfume in his nose. He wandered into the kitchen through the push door, watching as bodies dodged his path, hopping over someone passed out on the floor like they were a minor inconvenience. 

Passing a girl sprawled out on a marble top table, a displaced potted plant shattered on the nearby rug, as a guy bit a lime and licked liquid from her exposed belly button, her crop top making it easy to access.  
He thought he saw a guy trying to jump on the couch to grab the chandelier like a damn chimp. 

Teenagers were making out against walls, on the couch, on tables and in chairs. Those that weren't sucking face seemed to mostly be gathered out on the front lawn for a keg stand - Tommy and Carol and them must have been waiting for Billy. Queen’s _‘We Will Rock You’_ vibrated in the air, and half of the student body gathered in front of the house was singing along, bobbing their heads, and stamping their feet as they downed cheap whiskey and vodka, living up the last weekend of Spring Break. Crumpling empty beer cans to leave on the lawn or carpet. Playing beer pong. Shaking the floor with and the ground with the pound of shoes. The bass rattled Billy’s teeth in his skull as he parted through the crowd. Almost couldn’t hear himself think. 

So when Billy pushed into the kitchen through the door, and it swung open to allow him entry, it was almost empty. He went right after the cocktail of cheap ass, shiny alcoholic beverages lined up on the granite countertop. Along with a huge crystal bowl of tangerine hued punch. Nicky lived in the same neighborhood as Harrington, so really, it was pretty fuckin’ ritzy – but not as nice as Harrington’s place. Not by a long shot. Billy thought their bathroom was especially pretty shit, especially since he’d had plenty of quality time in there. 

Billy was pouring himself a red cup full of whiskey, a few girls flitting out the door behind him, giggling all shrill, leaving it swaying on it’s hinges. He hadn’t tapped a keg tonight – hadn’t touched much beer – the smell of it was putting him off. But he was downing the whiskey like it was nothin’, like it could wipe away the memory of what he’d just done, drown out the taste of Becky’s Bubble Yum and lipstick, letting it drizzle down his chin. The cig tucked between the fore and middle fingers of his free hand.

The bright, cheap whiskey dripped onto his bare sternum, in-between the lapels of his destroyed, light wash denim vest – once that worn out, faded jean jacket that he’d torn the arms off of. 

He thought he saw something outta the corner of his eye. Turned to look.  
Steve Harrington himself was on the floor, leaning against the wall like a sack of forgotten potatoes, legs sprawled out. In a preppy ass, baby blue polo shirt with a crisp white collar and pressed khakis. A half empty bottle of Bacardi’s white rum in his hands, straddling it in the v of his legs. Apparently, Billy wasn't so alone in the big, fancy kitchen as he'd thought.

Becky Winslow left his mind almost instantly.

Billy knew he should just leave him there. He shouldn’t care. He should walk the fuck out of the kitchen and let him sleep it off, or die of alcohol poisoning or whatever. But he thought about being sprawled out in front of that goddamn pink toilet, spilling his guts into the bowl. ‘bout Harrington half carrying him down the stairs. Taking him home. 

So instead, an amused smirk crawling over his face, Billy set down the empty drink and crouched low in front of Harrington, whose chin was tucked against his chest. Eyes closed, lashes forming dark crescents. Billy reached out to gently pat him on the cheek – okay, maybe a bit harder than he should have. It was more of a slap. Billy wished he had a sharpie to draw a dick there. He tapped his cheek again. Harrington’s freckled skin was soft. Billy almost let his hand linger. Almost.

“Hey. Harrington. Are you still awake? Hey!” He snapped his fingers, twice.

Harrington snorted a lil’, jerking with the not-so-gentle love tap, smacking the back of his head against the wall. Looking at Billy, all wild, wide brown eyes as he sucked in a startled breath, lips tight enough they went pale. Dark eyebrows all high on his big forehead as he glanced around, looking almost frightened for a moment, scrabbling on the kitchen floor like a startled beetle. He finally seemed to register Billy. The sudden, unexpected panic faded to a dazed look. The hell?

“Wuh? Oh. Billy.” Harrington slowly slumped back against the wall, tension draining away with a tiny pout on his pretty mouth. 

It was weird hearing his first name on Harrington’s lips. It made a shiver crawl up Billy's spine.

“In the flesh.”

“Thought you were…y’know…” Harrington blinked owlishly like he was trying to bring Billy into focus. "I dunno. Someone else." Harrington moaned a little, head rocking against the wall. Why the hell was he moaning like that. Billy wished he'd stop. “There’s two…of you. Billy’s. You’ve got…lipstick on you.” Harrington wrinkled his nose almost mournfully. 

Billy wondered if he was gonna throw up. Maybe Billy deserved it for ralphing all over Harrington’s sneakers a few weeks back. Billy restrained himself from swiping the vibrant evidence of Becky from his lips or cheeks again. 

“Where’s Becky?” 

Harrington had these familiar, purple dark bruises under his eyes, like he hadn’t been sleepin’ good or something. Billy’d noticed he always looked so fuckin’ tired. Was that why he was asleep now? On Nicky’s kitchen floor, totally sloshed on Bacardi’s? Drinking the rum straight.

“Dunno. Upstairs? Fuck if I know. Don’t care, either. The hell you doin’ here, Harrington? Besides taking a nap. Don’t you ever sleep, man?” Billy asked him. 

Grinning sharp. Grinning mean. Marlboro hanging from his mouth until he pulled it away to slowly wet his lips, letting his hot tongue slide there casually.

“And why you alone in here? Weren’t you lookin’ to get laid, too, huh? Wasn’t that your _big plan?”_

Harrington scowled at him like he’d swallowed something far more sour than white rum. Eyes briefly dropping to Billy’s mouth before his unfocused eyes tried to find Billy’s again. 

“What, like you did?” He took a long swig from the bottle like a pirate or somethin’. “I sleep.” Swaying, head thrown back against the wall. Exposing the line of his throat. His hair was especially poofy tonight, like he’d spent a little extra time on it. “And no.” He lied, unconvincingly at that. 

Billy snorted. Tried not to think about it too much. “Plenty of bitches here, pretty boy. Take your pick. Or did you get turned down, huh? That it, _King_ Steve?” He knew it was mean. He didn’t care.

Billy took a long, deep drag. Huffed a pale nebula of smoke into Harrington’s face, watching him cough a little in a laugh and shift his head, grinning. An opposite of the dark, pissed off look he’d given Billy before he’d left the Wheeler’s house. That soft brown hair was everywhere, curling down over his forehead, complimenting his dark eyes. Billy had a flashback to visualizing it under his hand, tangled in his fingers. His Adam’s apple bobbed with a reluctant swallow.

Those same big does eyes caught on Billy at his comment, then slid away. Harrington just sort of shrugged and slid down a little farther along the wall, the ass of his khakis sliding across the green marble tile floor as his slump worsened. He mumbled something vague Billy didn’t catch.

“What was that? Gotta speak up. Can't hear you.”

“I don’t wanna talk ‘bout it.” Harrington nodded, leaning suddenly real close to Billy, half hanging onto his shoulder with long, slender fingers. Christ he had big hands. Kicking a leg up to brace one knee, so he’d stop sliding down. Billy almost jerked away.  
Almost. 

“So, so I told you, right?” Harrington drunk laughed, but he didn’t sound real happy. Smiling that dopey smile of his. “Can’t say I didn’ warn you, Hargrove. Huh? Right?” So yeah. Seemed like everybody did hear her windpipe acrobatics. Harrington included. "She, she's actually...a pretty nice. Person. She really likes gum. I almost fucked her. Again. But I didn't. 'cause she's pretty nice. And I felt...bad. She's friends with Nancy."

And Steve Harrington was a goofy fucking drunk, apparently. Billy tried not to be delighted. He wasn't really listening to what Harrington was babbling about after the jab about the warning. Billy didn't feel bad. He didn't care how nice she was. He'd only given her what she'd asked for - it had been a physical agreement, and there was no need to look into it any farther than that. It's not like he'd paid her, like his dad was so sure of. Now that it was done, Billy didn't want to think about it at all. He hadn't even gotten off. Neither of them had.

Harrington blinked up at him all earnest, one hand still grabbing at his shoulder for some kind of support, even though Billy was a hairsbreadth away from shaking him off. 

“Nice? Right, well, she's annoying as shit. Guess I shoulda listened better. ” Billy said.

“But you owed her a _‘favor.’_

“Yeah. And I always keep my word, Harrington.”

“You could’ve just…asked me. Or whatever. Instead of the note, er, whate-ver. I would’ve shown up.”

“No you wouldn’t’ve.”

Harrington sighed at Billy, eyes half lidded with exhaustion, breath heavy with the tang of white rum. It fanned over Billy’s face like a warm California breeze, like the Santa Anas in a single breath. Harrington smelled like the Bacardi, strong, but also like his usual scent that Billy always got a good whiff of, especially on the basketball court – with Billy’s face practically tucked into the crook of Harrington’s neck, blocking him from behind, arms wide. Guarding him, pressed against the long line of his back, skins to shirts.

That rich boy Armani cologne he wore, and something sweeter, lighter, that always wafted from his cloud of brunette locks. A little girly, maybe. Smelled like the sweater Harrington’d let him borrow once, mixed with fabric softener, and musky boy sweat. It mixed with the nicotine of Billy’s own smoke.

Didn’t smell anything like Becky, all sugar sweet pheromones with her bubblegum and the Calvin Klein perfume that was worlds away from the Loves Baby Soft the Joanie bitch wore, like she was twelve or something. Billy’d kill Maxine if she wore that shit just based off of the ads and commercials.

“I would’ve. I know you said we aren’t, like, like friends. An’ you hate me. And...like...beat the shit. Out of me.” Harrington mumbled, slurring his words together. “But I’m like…I’m a _really_ good friend. I make a good friend.” He was tipping over a little, only staying upright where his fingers were curled into the collar of Billy’s denim vest.

Billy restrained himself from saying anything about hating the guy, tempting as it was. Or about how easy Harrington went down in a fight. Instead, he just said,

“Sure you do.”

“’s _true._ ”

“Hoult don't seem to think so.”

“Well Tommy, Tommy is an _asshole_.”

Billy sighed. Wasn’t that the fuckin’ truth. He wondered what he should do about Harrington, if anything. He wondered if Joanie or Chachi had come here with him. Or if he was alone.

“So. Fuuuuuuck Tommy. He’s…he doesn’t like _ladybugs._ Who doesn’t like _ladybugs_? They’re _cute._ They're good luck. Right?”

"Let's get you off the fuckin’ floor. You're trashed. Goin' on about bugs and shit...." Billy muttered to himself.

Then Harrington looked up at him, still latched onto his collar like a clingy little bitch, knuckles brushing against Billy's neck, using his body like an anchor, and his face was real close. Too close. Breathing in Billy’s face, where Billy could inhale the humid heat of what Harrington exhaled, smelling like fabric softener and Armani, sweet hair products and sharp rum, and those eyelashes were so long.  
The bruises where Billy’d head butted him in the face were almost completely gone now, just like Billy’s. Ghosts of old injuries, memories. Billy could pick out a couple individual freckles, standing out on that fresh ivory skin, and the wide angle of his nose. The soft dimple where his chin met a full lower lip. He could feel the warmth radiating off Harrington’s body from here.  
The back of Billy's head itched. His stomach was getting too warm.

He felt those whiskey dark eyes on him, too. Watching.

“Get the fuck offa me, Jesus.” Billy snapped, brows pinching tight, a furrow forming between them as he pulled away. He shook himself to try and knock Harrington’s grip off. “You need to get your drunk ass home, Harrington. Get up.”

Harrington just hiccuped. He didn’t let go, even as Billy tried to rattle him loose. His head bobbled on his neck.  
“’can’t get up.” 

Yeah? Billy had the same problem, where it counted. Not accounting for the slow heat in his stomach seconds ago.

Billy just grabbed Harrington by the scruff of his white collared polo, one arm hooked beneath his underarm, and hauled him up to his feet like he weighed nothing. He swayed for a second once his Cortez Nike sneakers were flat on the floor. Billy wondered why Harrington wasn’t wearing his usual black party shoes, then remembered, he’d vomited on them.

“Look, did you come here with Joanie and Chachi?" Harrington stared at him. "Wheeler and Byers? They here?" He shook his head no.

"Where’s your car then?

“I walked.”

“You _walked?_ Christ, of course you did. Well then walk your happy ass back home. It ain’t far.” Was it? Billy didn't think so. 

Harrington just sighed and looked around a little, gaze wandering like he wasn’t paying attention. He was holding onto the bottle of Bacardi in his arms like it was a baby. Billy plucked it from his grasp to take a good long swig of the white rum, letting it burn down his throat. Fuck, his tongue hurt from scalding it earlier, and the alcohol set it on fire now. He ignored the blazing sting over his ravaged taste buds.

"I walk in the woods. Sometimes." Harrington mumbled, almost to himself.

"Well that ain't creepy. You give me the fuckin' heebie jeebies, you know that, Harrington? You're almost as bad as Byers."

"You've...mentioned? It, once or...twice. Maybe. Sorry."

“Just go the fuck home. You hear me? Go back home to your castle, you goddamn lightweight. Not through the woods."

"Why not?" 

"You'll trip and die, that's why. Look at you.” Shit he didn't have the time or patience to be babysitting a drunk Harrington. 

“But what’re you gonna do?” Harrington finally looked at him again.

“Nothing, pretty boy. I've gotta get home early.” 

It was maybe getting closer to two. His pops had said a 'reasonable time.' Obviously, fucking somebody clearly hadn't worked out. Hoult and his girl were going at it like rabbits in the coat closet. Billy wasn't kegging. Hell, he didn't want to go back, but something about the way Neil had said 'William' before he left...it was niggling in the back of his head. Yeah, Billy was done here.

“But wait, isn’t...isn't today your birthday?” Harrington asked, squinting, head tilting a little, like Billy hadn’t just told him to go the fuck home.

Billy stared at him.

“What?”

The door to the kitchen swung open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 80's references post : https://lemonlovely.tumblr.com/post/174241542696/words-left-unsaid-harringrove-chapter-15-80s


	16. Excuse you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter that wasn't supposed to exist, but here it is.
> 
> 80's references (songs included) : https://lemonlovely.tumblr.com/post/174367160451/16-80s-referencesvisuals-list
> 
> April 13th, 1985

Steve had spent most of the week at home, ignoring his growing pile of homework that was due at the end of break. Textbooks and papers and pencils left abandoned on the coffee table where he normally worked. Even though he was ‘suspended’ from party activities, apparently that did not exclude him from driving them around. At least not Dustin, for the most part.

So Dustin had called him up and asked him to go bowling on Saturday night, because he thought Steve probably needed to get out of the house and he needed to update Steve on his science project with his little lizards. Frogs. Tadpoles. Steve had given in with a sort of fond resignation, even if he was sort of terrible at bowling, and it gave him something to look forward to before break ended. And he didn't really want to admit how depressed he'd been after the incident at the Wheeler's with the kids in the basement, with Mike ganging up on him to effectively kick him out or whatever. 'Temporarily'. He'd been moping around the house. Maybe. A little. So he'd accepted Dustin's invitation. 

But there was another thing on his mind. And that was Billy Hargrove – the reason he’d gotten into this mess with the little shitheads in the first place. Steve had been sorta pissed when he’d left the Wheeler’s house the other day, and he hadn’t been sure who it was with – pissed with Billy, or pissed with himself. 

Yeah, he needed to get laid. He could do that. Like it was hard? Hell, he used to do that all the time. And maybe it wasn’t worth changing to whatever this was without Nancy.

Maybe he should just be doing what everyone else was doing, fucking without a care as to who or why. Being a regular teenager and all that. Because graduation was soon, and there was only so much time left for that before _‘real life’_ set in.

They said that youth was wasted on the young, and lately, he felt like he’d been wasting a lot of it. He didn’t want to. 

So Friday night rolled around, with bowling planned for the next night, even if Steve was a little loathe to have to be around Mike Wheeler. Even if he was one of his kids and he’d do pretty much anything for any of ‘em. 

Steve was repeatedly checking his watch as Friday wound through – playing the new football game on the Nintendo that Dustin had gotten him, making himself a sandwich for lunch, and cleaning up around the coffee table a little since he knew his parents were coming back next month – tossing away crumpled beer cans and greasy pizza boxes. It was getting kinda gross, and sort of smelled like socks. He found a few under the couch. His mom would kill him if she found that shit.

It was finally getting late enough for Nicky’s Spring Break party. Steve slid some rubbers into his back pocket to be safe along with his leather wallet. Nicky’s wasn’t far from his house, and it was actually warm enough that he didn’t think he had to take the BMW. 

And honestly, maybe it was the nightmares, maybe it was the lack of sleep, but Steve felt like walking through the woods to get there. He wanted to reassure himself that nothing was lurking there. To see it with his own eyes. And that was easy during the daytime, along paths he’d walked as a child, alongside trees that felt familiar. Some that had grown with him, their bony branches reaching higher towards the sky each time Steve had a growth spurt. 

But the night was different. That was when the shadows would be there. When those trees became ominous strangers. When the creatures of night and hell and dark would be waiting, if they were there at all. So that was when he wanted to go. 

He didn’t take his bat. He told himself he didn’t need it, even if he wanted it in his hand. If he was going to Nicky’s, he didn’t know where to put it. Steve walked through the forest in the dark, a full bottle of Bacardi hanging from his hand by the neck like it was a weapon instead. 

The bark on the trees was rough, bathed in the silver wash of moonlight through the bare branch canopy – just beginning to spill open with diamond-like leaf buds. Tiny ones. Steve had dressed up before leaving the house in one of his nicest polo shirts and khaki's, spent extra time on his hair in front of the mirror. He'd even used an extra puff of the Fawcette spray before he'd blow dried. 

Now, he felt out of place. He felt too nice and put together and real in this creepy place. This place of shadows and barely born leaves and dark crannies between branch and stone, like he had walked into the wrong movie or something. Like he walked in a horror movie like The Evil Dead when he belonged in a teen flick like The Breakfast Club, a new movie he’d just seen at The Hawk a few months ago with Nancy on opening day.

Steve tapped the heavy bottle of white rum against his thigh as he walked, his whiskey dark eyes on the surrounding forest, as if he would see something. Like he was on some kind of patrol around the outskirts of Hawkins where the woods embraced the edge of town, keeping something at bay. 

But he only heard the normal sounds. The beginnings of spring. The soft clicks and sighs of the starts of spring insects, chittering nighttime critters, and the distant lowing call of an owl at the moon. He thought he heard a coyote yipping about, and these were all normal animal sounds. 

Sounds he knew, could give a name to, sounds that were actually from earth, not hell. Or purgatory. Whatever that cursed place was. 

But the cold of the forest, like that of a mist, pressed against his left shoulder where he paced the perimeter, following the short walk to Nicky's house. He could hear the party before he saw it. It drowned out the click and stir of the forest, of forest branches rubbing together in a breeze and the blips of bats coming out of hibernation or whatever they did in the winter. Hiding in caves or something.

No, instead, he could hear the pound of music vibrating through the forest -– unnatural, jarring, slipping into his bloodstream from a distance like a live wire. Startling the nightlife into silence.

Steve had always loved parties. He used to love them. He’d never missed a party, hell, he used to throw them himself. What seemed forever ago. As he neared Nicky’s and the music grew louder, wilder, and he could hear the cries of drunk teens and the splash of Nicky’s pool. He felt his pulse pick up in the soft, vulnerable part of his throat.

For just a second, it was a different pool, a different time, different screams. Jonathan Byers lurking around in the bushes like a freak, taking photos of the entire affair. Steve was in the water, and he had Nancy in his arms, the press of her body warm, even in the heated chlorine water. The buzz of the beer in his veins and a heat in his belly responding to the smell of Nancy’s baby soft perfume in his nose with the tang of the chlorine, and everything had been perfect. Just for a moment.

Steve hadn’t known about any of the shit. He hadn’t known about the creature lurking in the area, ready to snatch Barb away, faceless, the embodiment of death. A flower faced fucker of a reaper. 

Steve shivered with the woods around him. He wasn’t in the pool. Those weren’t the screams of nearly two years ago. Everything had changed. Steve slipped out of the cover of the treeline to head towards the beacon of Nicky’s house – the teal glow of his pool, so much like Steve’s, and each light lit up orange against the night like candle flames. Reflective against the night sky, as if the house was made of gold from the inside. 

Steve buried his free hand in the pocket of his Khaki’s as he let the bottle of alcohol hang from the other, and no one seemed to notice as the loner who had once been king slipped into their midst – as if he’d been there all along. 

There were a lot of people fucking around in the pool, girls swaying on guys shoulders, and there was a vibrant beach ball floating around, with bright sparkles of water splashing up like waves. 

Steve avoided the pool area, his throat clenching, until he could get into the house through the sliding glass door, where the walls vibrated with music, a polar opposite of the naturally filled silence of the Hawkins woods. 

He flipped his shades off of his forehead so that they covered his eyes. _‘A Forest’_ by _The Cure_ was playing, ironically, and Steve let it settle in the pit of his belly like an iron weight as he walked the halls, avoiding bodies and heading into the heart of the huge house – just a bit smaller than his own, really.  
Well, okay, more than a bit smaller, but still larger than most. 

_‘Come closer and see. See into the trees. Find the girl. If you can. Come closer and see.’_

Steve didn’t know why he was here. He didn’t know why he’d come. As for the party a few weeks ago, he’d just shown up to get black out drunk without being alone. Now, with a bottle of rum in his hand and this plan to find some girl, he had no idea what he was doing.

He’d been talking big to Billy Hargrove. 

Lit up with fire from the inside, that bitter clench of his stomach spurring him on. With something like shame, and something like a need to prove himself, along with something else entirely Steve didn’t recognize. An indirect kiss pushing him farther. He just needed to get his dick wet and it would be fine.

He was totally over Nancy. He was. And this would just finalize things. It had been months. He was fine with the entire situation. What he needed was a rebound, and it was seriously overdue. 

He ignored the fact that he felt a little shaky. He ignored the fact that his fingers were trembling faintly, with the shadows of the trees following him inside the brightly lit home – until he got to the living room, which had the lights set low for a mood. And he had the splash of water in his ears, and the excited screams, and the hovering monster looming just out of sight. 

He’d seen the photo, the one taped together, that he hadn’t spent enough time looking at before he’d ripped it to pieces. Shredded proof. The picture of the monster hovering above Barb in black and white like death incarnate. Steve ignored the feeling that he recognized, because this wasn't the time, and this wasn't the place for a breakdown, and honestly it hadn't happened in a long time. 

He was fine. He was alright. Steve found himself in the pulse of bodies in the living room, shifting around him like a live thing to the thump and rhythm of The Cure. 

Couples and non couples were making out, grinding against walls and in a writhing crowd of wild dancers and half bare bodies, their faces slack or split wide into grins, no cares, some holding cups of spiked punch above their heads as they swayed. 

Steve really had been talking big about finding a girl to fuck. 

Sure, Becky had seemed pretty willing last time before she'd called him a ‘freak,’ and maybe it would be that easy this time. But he didn’t want to be with any of the girls in Hawkins. Hell, he knew all of them – he’d known most of them since they were in elementary school, had grown up with them. The curse of a small town. 

_‘I hear her voice. Calling my name. The sound is deep. In the dark. I hear her voice. And start to run. Into the trees. Into the trees’_

He’d had a crush on Nancy since they were in fourth grade, although it had never culminated into anything until high school. Obviously. She’d always felt like she was on another level from him, impossible to reach, on a perfect poised pedestal, and once he finally had finally crawled high enough, built wings for himself, it had seemed like a miracle. 

Too good to be true. And it had. He’d flown too close to the sun, and she had burned him like heavenly fire. She hadn’t even cared.

He was so tired of losing everything, and everyone. Because he was never high enough, never good enough, and even when he pretended to be with false wings – they failed him. Maybe that’s why the Nancy thing had broken him down so hard, and for so long.

_‘I'm lost in a forest. All alone. The girl was never there. It's always the same. I'm running towards nothing. Again and again and again and again.’_

But it was pointless to worry about anymore, though. Steve had added the bottle of Bacardi to the full assortment in the kitchen – a full line up of fun and fancy drinks, mostly cheaper ones, and he got a cup of the tangerine colored punch. He sipped at it as he wandered back into the fray, wishing he’d actually shown up here with someone – so he didn’t feel quite so alone.

He only needed to go up to a girl – which used to be so easy. He didn’t understand why he felt so disconnected from who and how he used to be. How could one person like Nancy Wheeler inspire such a change in him? He didn’t understand it. Didn’t want to like it. Didn’t know how he felt about it, really. 

Steve had never felt so alone in a group of so many people, he’d never understood the phrase about being alone in a crowd. But after Billy had shown up and promptly replaced his spot in the school food chain, mostly at a party, it had become a constant companion.

Maybe he needed to get Nancy and Jonathan to come with him next time, even if Jonathan would rather stick around the Byer’s house and listen to Indy music alone. 

Steve drank more of his punch. Relaxing into the music as the alcohol worked it’s magic. Tried to channel two years ago Steve. He bobbed his head with the music. It was so dark in here he could barely see, but he didn’t care. He tried to lose himself in the music, and the drink, and he tried to let something come naturally with a girl. Didn’t care who. He was on a mission, right? 

He could do this just as easily as Billy could. And he knew Billy was right, he just needed a rebound. Why did he keep on thinking about Billy? It was stupid. 

And then, his shades didn’t block out one thing that maybe he wished they had – because he’d known he’d be here, knew before Steve had left the house - he actually saw Billy Hargrove. He’d know that curly mullet anywhere. 

Steve pulled his Ray-Ban’s off. Hooked them into his polo. Billy was across the room with his back to Steve, but he knew it was him, in a ripped denim vest and dark wash, boot leg jeans that hugged him like a second skin – especially his ass, with rutting hips - black boots peeking out from beneath the hems.

Billy and Becky almost blended in with all of the other couples with their tongues down the other’s throats, because they were no different. 

_Talk Talk’s_ , _It’s my life_ started playing.  
_‘Funny how I find myself in love with you. If I could buy my reasoning I'd pay to lose. One half won't do.’_

Becky’s bleach blonde hair in it’s big side ponytail with the envious volume was just barely visible beyond Billy’s own curls, peeking out from behind him where he had her boxed up against a wall. His strong arms were wrapped around her, big hands tucked into the back of her pencil skirt's waistband where he had his hips pressed against her pelvis. Rocking there. Her slender arms intertwined along his waistline like crushing vines, as one of her bare legs hooked around Billy’s knee, tugging him closer. 

With Billy’s back to him, Steve couldn’t see what was happening with their mouths, but he could imagine. It was a big damn show, and people were watching with eager eyes. 

But Steve looked away. Throat tight.

He had a goal. He’d known Billy would be here with Becky. He didn’t care. It didn’t affect him; it had nothing to do with him. They weren’t even friends. Mortal enemies might have been a little bit closer to the right words. Even if maybe…maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. To be sort of friends. 

His thoughts on the subject were slowly changing, built around moments like…like Billy on the kitchen floor, wet with blood. Billy mocking his music taste in his living room with something like mean-spirited glee. Sitting in a yellow-lit kitchen as Billy got stitches in his head. Billy and Steve on the dead grass outside school, sharing headphones. Steve showing Billy how to open a stupid kid’s drink. Billy chewing on the cap in this ridiculous, endearing way. Steve keeping Billy’s secrets, even though he didn’t understand why they were secret. The quiet way Billy had asked him _‘why.’_ Those intense blue eyes on him. 

Like maybe Billy could be different than what he’d first thought. Maybe. Like maybe he could find out.

But he thought of Billy saying they weren’t. Friends. 

Steve drank more of the mystery punch, his eyes flicking through the crowd of bodies – avoiding two particular ones, wrapped up into one at the moment. 

There were a lot of girls. Girls he knew. Girls he’d known for a long, long while. None of them were Nancy. It had been five months. It was gonna start getting creepy at this point if he was still hung up on her. Maybe it already was creepy. Maybe he should have been over her the next day, the next week, whatever. Well he...he didn't know. He didn't think he was ACTUALLY like, HUNG UP on her. Exactly. He’d told her it was fine, and he’d meant it. He wanted her to be happy. He REALLY didn't want to date her again after what had happened. 

And after all, she’d given him a year plus change's worth of nothing but lies. What was there to be hung up on? It had only been bullshit. Just a little bit of bullshit. 

But hell, he’d liked her since fourth grade, which had only resolidified in Sophomore year when she’d taken the blame off of Jonathan for a science experiment gone wrong when they were lab partners. It was probably one of the only grades she hadn’t gotten perfect before, and it hadn’t even been her fault. She did that kinda thing a lot. 

Now, it made Steve realize Nancy had been ‘in like’ with Jonathan since then. Maybe before that. It hadn’t only started when he’d seen them in her bedroom. Just like Steve had liked her long before dating her. 

He hated this complicated love triangle shit. He wasn’t even really a point in the triangle anymore, but it was hard to not be the third point when he was always around the other two points – maybe Billy was right about that. The way Nancy was always looking at him, smiling at him, like nothing had changed, touching him – touching his arm, touching his face, touching his shoulder. Making him feel like there was a chance. Like she still cared about him in that way. Asking him to go and see The Breakfast Club.

Even if she never had in the first place. 

Billy and Becky were gone. People were talking, saying that they’d been told to ‘get a room!’, so they _HAD_. That was when the familiar cries started up – just audible under the teeth-rattling hum of music, chatter, laughter, cheers at beer pong. 

Steve knew that voice. He knew those screams. Becky Winslow was a screamer. He had remembered that much from his choppy memories of being with her. 

His brain was starting to buzz. His punch cup was empty. Steve went back for more. And then more after that. His thoughts were turning soupy now, and so was everything else. Watered down and liquid. Steve’s mind swam in it, in tangerine spiked punch and too many thoughts. 

He still felt kinda shaky, kinda not quite right, after the woods, after the water and the pool, and the thrilled screams like de-ja-vu. The picture of Barb sitting on the diving board. Nancy in his arms, making love as Barb died outside his window. No, not made love. Fucked.

He reminded himself about how to get a girl. You acted like you didn’t care. Nope. Don’t care. Steve? What? Him? He didn’t care. He didn’t care about _ANYTHING_. He did not give a single fuck.

And hey, it worked. At least he thought so. Well of course it worked. It was _great_ advice. Because the next thing he knew, he was on Nicky’s front porch with his hand up a girl’s knotted off tee-shirt – Tanya Lee's shirt – definitely kissing her. Smiling against her mouth like everything was great and right with the world and Tanya was kissing him right back with her pretty, slightly sticky lips that tasted like cherry smash Lip Potion, and she smelled so good, like French vanilla. Her breasts were definitely bigger and rounder than Nancy's had been, beneath her bra. He was half hard in his khakis.

As she kissed him back, his body settled against hers easily, hard lines against soft curves. She was so pliant beneath him, plush and giving.

But he soon realized she was just as sloshed as he was when she had trouble staying standing, and they were both leaning heavy against the siding. Steve blinked hard at her, suddenly seeming to realize where he was and what was happening, tasting the tangerine orange citrus nonsense on her tongue. 

As she mumbled at him, smiling at him all sweet, and she was so soft, like silk, under his bare hand. Her tiny, gentle hands were wrapped up in his hair, tugging. He had been about to undo her bra one handed, from behind, his fingertips on the hook as she suddenly reached down to tug at his shirt like it was gonna come off out here on the porch.

Her long, perfect, straight black hair was catching on his shoulders, in his face, some of it actually in his mouth, and her mouth, too. Her tongue was like sugary tasting velvet, and her lips, sticky with Lip Potion gloss, were so soft. _Foreigner’s ‘Urgent’_ was playing. They were surrounded by people, all drunk off their asses, too.

_“You're not shy, you get around. You wanna fly, don't want your feet on the ground. You stay up, you won't come down. You wanna live, you wanna move to the sound.”_

Steve thought of Becky’s heated cries from before. He jolted a bit in something like shock, or surprise, sobering slightly. Steve spit some of the black strands out as he staggered back, still blinking, and everything tilted. 

“Uh, I’m…I’m sorry. Tanya. I can’t.” He mumbled at her. 

“Excuse you?" Her voice slurred, and she seemed to think better of it. "Um, I mean, wait, S-steve…where’re you goin’? I thought…” She called after him. 

Steve could only shake his head, turning, wandering, heading unsteadily back into the house after he’d just felt her up. Tripping a little. Tugging his polo shirt back down where she’d rucked it up, covering his belly again. Tanya was so sweet, so sweet, but he didn’t, she wasn’t…maybe it _could_ be, but he didn’t think…

“s not…somethin’s not right…I just, gotta…go…” Steve said, though she probably couldn’t hear him anymore. 

She was _drunk._  
He was _drunk._  
It wasn’t right.  
It didn’t count.  
It didn’t matter.  
It wasn’t real.  
It was _bullshit._

He didn’t _want_ bullshit anymore. Maybe, maybe it could turn into something more, he didn't know, he didn't...he didn't...  
He didn’t know what he wanted.

_‘Got fire in your veins. Burnin' hot but you don't feel the pain. Your desire is insane. You can't stop until you do it again.’_

Steve found himself looking, blearily, involuntarily, for Billy’s back against the wall, Foreigner heavy in his ears. The world was tilted on it's side.

_‘But sometimes I wonder as I look in your eyes. Maybe you're thinking of some other guy. But I know, yes I know, how to treat you right. That's why you call me in the middle of the night.’_

Billy wasn’t there. And then Steve remembered. Then he heard people talking, and he heard the heated screams, her deep lusty cries, still going strong. Holy fuck, how long had they been at it?

_“You say it's urgent. So urgent, so oh oh urgent. Just wait and see. How urgent my love can be. It's urgent. You play tricks on my mind. You're everywhere but you're so hard to find. You're not warm or sentimental. You're so extreme, you can be so temperamental.”_

Screaming and throaty cries keeping time along with the music. It had people laughing and talking about it in hushed secret tones, words going around and around like in a game of telephone. Talking about _Billy Hargrove._ _**Sex-God.**_ But soon, they were filtering out to the lawn to tap a keg. Distracted by the promise of beer and a new show.

Steve didn’t follow, even if he’d used to have the title of Keg King – instead, he found himself in the kitchen again, moving as if through a dream. Instead of the punch, he snatched the barely touched, bottle of rum he’d brought for the party to selfishly keep for himself. Swallowing the burn of it thickly down his throat.

_‘I know what I need and I need it fast. Yeah, there's one thing in common that we both share. That's a need for each other anytime, anywhere.’_

Steve could hear the cries, the breathy moans, as if punctuated by thrusts, and he could hear a montage of _‘Billy – harder – faster - oh, oh, OHHH!’_ – just resting, like a breath, beneath the thrum of the music, _Foreigner’s ‘Urgent.’_

Becky’s cries seemed to sync up with the beat. Like Billy was pounding her to the rhythm. The thought made Steve strangely dizzy, stomach clenching. What the fuck was wrong with him.

_‘It gets so urgent. So urgent. You know it's urgent  
I wanna tell you it's the same for me.’ _

Her moans became part of the chorus, _B-billy, oh, oh, OHHH!_ Haunting echoes of _‘urgent, urgent, EMERGENCYYYY!’_

' _Make it fast, make it urgent. Do it quick, do it urgent. Gotta rush, make it urgent. Want it quick. Urgent, urgent, emergency.'_

Steve rolled his eyes up, as far as they could maybe go, and let out a giddy sort of hysteric laugh to himself as he started in on the Bacardi – drinking straight from the bottle, because fuck cups. Chugging it. Chug, chug, chug. What the FUCK was he doing here!?!?! 

_‘Urgent, urgent, emergency. Urgent, urgent, urgent, urgent, emergency!’_

Time passed. Half the bottle was gone before he knew it. Steve couldn't breathe. Slumping against the wall, as if faced with monsters. Usually alcohol made him laugh. Usually it made him silly. Or so he'd been told. It helped him relax, sleep. But now, he thought he might be having a panic attack that felt like stress and a black hole. The one that had been threatening to get him all night. Half clawing at his chest for air, like he had a handful of times before, partially hidden behind one wall of the kitchen where it met the pantry. Alone in a houseful of people. 

And Steve was on the floor. _Emergency!_


	17. This is all your fault!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags and RATING updated as of this chapter!  
> Warning for: physical abuse, child abuse. Violence (After the ***** line break ) Please steer clear if you feel you need to.
> 
> P.S I swear things will get happier soon :')
> 
> April 13th, 1985

There was such kindness in Harrington’s face. An open and easy expression, all for Billy. Not the closed off, guarded expression he usually wears in Billy’s presence. The one Billy put there. Months ago. On purpose.

And then the door opens, and Tommy Hoult is sticking his head in – shirtless and hopping as he’s zipping up his fly - yelling ‘Hargrove, cops!’ before the guy is booking it, probably with Carol at his side. Not sticking around.

Billy grunted around the yellow filter of his dwindling cig, like he’s mildly inconvenienced with the news – now he can hear people starting to scatter beyond the kitchen walls, the patter of fleeing feet, thrilled screams and alcohol induced laughter. He visualizes the intoxicated underage teens skittering around like cockroaches exposed under a pulled out fridge. Might’ve heard Nicky cryin’ out in the living room like a lil’ bitch.

He turns back to Harrington, saying ”Sounds like that’s our cue, Harrington –“ who promptly tips forward, crumpling like a tree whose trunk’s been cut, to faceplant directly into Billy’s partially exposed chest – with a soft, wet sound as his cheek smacks directly into a bright spot of shiny, spilled whiskey on his bare sternum. Where Billy'd spilled it all over himself before. 

Saying something like ‘urgh.' 

Half hanging onto Billy’s denim vest to keep himself upright, his only lifeline, groaning as his Nike’s slip on the marble tile like he’s in ice skates on thin fuckin’ ice. 

Billy’s brain short circuits briefly, and for a second he’s too overwhelmed with Harrington’s too-warm body weight sort of tipping him back. Rocking Billy back on his heels. ‘cause there’s the feel of Harrington’s faint stubble on his bare skin, sliding there, smelling real good like his damn Richie-Rich Armani with his huge hairsprayed Elvis pompadour in his face like a fuckin’ prick. 

He can hear that real familiar ‘whoop, whoop!’ of police sirens out front.  
Yeah. Real familiar. Billy’s been in the back of one of those cruisers more than once, and he’s not real keen to land there again, especially with the way his pops has been acting. 

“Why the hell can't you ever stay on your feet, Harrington? How much did you fuckin’ drink, dipshit?” Billy huffs.

His fists strained as he tried not to punch Harrington off of him and into next Friday. He ain't no faggot. He sets the bottle of Bacardi down, and just looks down at the top of Harrington’s full head of hair as the preppy boy flounders against Billy’s chest, all hot breath and confused mumbling, his cheek slipping in the stray, cheap whiskey. 

“We gotta get outta here or else you’re gonna be havin’ a real nice pow-wow with that cop friend of yours. Harrington. You hear me?” 

Billy finally got ahold of himself well enough he could grab the taller teen by the shoulders to try and straighten him out, pull him off of Billy, but it’s like holding up pure dead weight. 

Harrington tells him “Um,” real articulate-like. “Yeah?” 

He almost leaves him there. Knows he should just leave him there. He can fend for himself, he’s a big boy. But Billy sighs and rolls his eyes, and with some semblance of trying to hurry, attempts to get an arm around Harrington and get him out of there – but he just flops around like a goofy, drunk fish. He ain’t going nowhere. Billy sighs again like he’s being tortured by this whole ordeal, before he makes a split section decision. 

‘ _Whoop-whoop!’_ call the cop cars from outside. 

He can’t help but think of Harrington dragging his sorry ass out of the same house a matter of weeks ago. Even when he didn’t have to. When probably nobody else would’ve. Even if he had a talent for sticking his nose where it didn’t fucking belong, like some do-gooder, and it bugged the shit out of Billy. ‘cause he didn’t need help. Not from anyone, and certainly not from _King Steve_.

“I told you before, I don’t owe you shit, Harrington. I…fuck.” Billy ground his teeth together until his jaw ached. Made a split second decision. “Okay. But after this, we’re fuckin’ even. Dammit.” 

Billy promptly champed down on the cig between his lips to keep it outta the way and scooped Harrington up like he weighed nothing, like the potato sack he’d been comparing him to earlier, and throws him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Harrington grunted, and groggily grabbed onto the back of Billy’s vest with both hands, tugging at the hem like he’s trying to figure out how he got upside down so quickly, and why his hair is rising even more with the pull of gravity. Nike’s in the air. 

“WhUHt are you doing, asshole?! Hey! Uh!?” Harrington shouted all crazy like, shrill even, but he’s already over Billy’s shoulder like the drunkard he is, and there ain’t no going back. 

“Just shuddup, we’re leaving.” Billy growled. A couple packs of rubbers, and the guy’s fancy leather wallet fell out of his jeans. Billy caught ‘em up and shoved them in his own pocket.

Supporting Harrington over his shoulder with only one arm around the insides of his knees, smoking his Marlboro with his left hand, Billy bails out through the push door in the kitchen. Harrington mumbling pissy complaints into his denim clad back.

He ain’t thinking about that khaki ass right next to his face.

\--------------------------

Harrington had sobered up some after his cop buddy, the Chief of all people, spotted their retreat and started yellin’ shit at Billy’s retreating back. And Billy’s cursing at himself, because the last thing he needs is the Chief going to his dad about it. Maybe he only recognized Harrington, though. 

Once he’d gotten Harrington thrown into the passenger side of the Camaro, and Harrington’s finished scolding him about seatbelts, Billy’s got Lenore’s tires screaming away from the parking spot two blocks away from Nicky’s. Far enough away to not worry about the cops. She’s rumbling deep, just for him as he tears down the street towards Harrington’s house – it’ll be a short drive. So Billy cuts straight to the chase. The radio turned low for once, so he could hear the asshole that was already three sheets to the wind.

“How’d you know? About today?” He asks. He tightened his hands on the vinyl of the steering wheel, wishing he had a smoke, but he’d used his last one after Becky. Harrington is fidgeting with the vents, flipping them around, and he glances at Billy as if in slow mode. 

“Um…today?” Harrington asks, brow furrowing in concentration. 

Billy scowls out at the flash of the street lamps over the asphalt.  
“My birthday, numb nuts. You stalkin’ me or what? You hangin' out in the bushes outside my house, pretty boy? ‘cause you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.”  
He grits out, sounding angrier than he is. 

But he ain’t angry. Not really. Not sure what he is. 

It seems to take a second for this to process in Harrington’s brain.

“No. No. Don’t be ridi -…yeah, no.” Harrington rolled his eyes. “But your…birthday, yeah. Your birthday.” 

Then when Billy takes a chance to glance over at him, Harrington is giving him this ridiculous, dazzling smile, all white teeth and hair flopping into his eyes, making crinkles around the corners. 

“Happy Birthday, Billy.”

Billy swallows down this lump, one that's sharp, barbed, and there's something alight and heated behind his breastbone he ignores, because he can't say anything back. He has to look away, and Harrington’s smile fades as he leans back into his leather seat. 

“That’s…easy….” Harrington mumbles, sighing, eyes closed as he leans his head back against the headrest. “Coach put up the team list…at the start of the semester. With everybody’s names ‘n birthdays.” 

Billy chewed on that for a minute as he drove. He could see the lights from Harrington’s house, lit up like the fourth of fuckin’ July. Billy wondered if his parents were still up this late. Probably waiting on Harrington to show. Worried or some shit. He pulled up into the long ass driveway that could’ve been a street in and of itself. 

“Nobody looked at that stupid list, Harrington.” 

It had only been up for like a week, as a refresher on their teammates going into the new semester. As if they’d forgotten over winter break or something? It was so stupid. Billy hadn’t even looked at it. It had birthdays on it? Who knew?

Harrington shrugged a little, grimacing as he turned his head to look out the car window at the mansion waiting outside his door. 

“Well, I did.” Of course he did. 

“Like you forgot everybody’s names or what?” 

“No…” Harrington’s face was still turned away, towards the homey glow of the porch light. “I just...thought it was interesting...wanted to remember. Their birthdays.…it’s nice to be remembered on your birthday.” Harrington shrugged, gazing out the window again.

Of course that’s why he’d paid attention to it, goody two shoes brown noser lil’ bitch. So what, he was just goin’ around telling the team members ‘happy birthday’ like a fuckin’ nut job? Like they mattered to him? All they did was make fun of Harrington. Billy included.

Billy gripped the wheel tighter, felt the vinyl and plastic creak under his fists. 

“I guess.” He said. 

Billy didn’t understand the guy. Who did stuff like that? It made Billy...uncomfortable.

Harrington looked over at him, looking sorta sleepy or groggy, like he’d just woken up from a nap with that flyaway, crazy hair. 

“What’re you doing later?” He asked. 

Billy’s fingers itched for a cigarette he didn’t have. 

“Nothin’.”

“Like later, with your family?”

Billy shook his head. 

Harrington seemed to think about that for a minute, pulling at a stray thread on his polo like it was buggin’ him. It was quiet for a second, an awkward silence, Lenore idling with a low purr outside the King’s castle. The radio on low. It sort of startled Billy when Harrington piped up again, his voice quiet. 

“Well…you know about bowling? Today?”

Billy nodded. “Driving Maxine later on.” He said with no small amount of disgust for his step-sister.

Harrington smiled at him a little. “I figured. You should come. Like…like you should come with us, man. If you’ve gotta drive her anyway….right?” 

Billy stared at Harrington like he’d just magically started speaking out of his ass, and Harrington stared right back, looking wasted or whatever, and not…ridiculously pretty or something. 

“Birthday bowling.” Harrington prompted all cute with that tentative smile, when Billy didn’t react. He hadn’t been bowling since California. 

“Bowling, huh? I’d rather be caught dead than hanging out with your collection of loser Whiz Kids, babysitter-boy. _Bowling._ ” He sneered. “’sides, didn’t they kick you out of their little gang?” 

Harrington seemed to wilt a little at that, his drunken, inquisitive stare losing some of it’s easy curiosity. He tilted his head away, showing off the freckles on his throat to Billy, like he was asking him to count them. 

“Suspended. It’s stupid. Whatever. But I’m still driving. I’m still going. Whose fault is it…I got kicked out anyway…huh?” Harrington sighed and started to lean forward, bringing a hand to his mouth. “I’m gonna hurl.” He announced. 

Billy’s eyes flew wide, all long lashes and flashing blue as he reached across Harrington to snap on the handle, and pushed the door open before shoving Harrington on the shoulder to guide him toward the exit. 

“You get any of that shit in Lenore and you’ll be picking up your teeth through next week, pretty boy.” Billy snapped. 

Harrington snorted. “Lenore.” He says. Then he leaned out the door and threw up all over the cement with a gross, wet sound. 

“Don’t you make fun of my girl, Harrington.” 

Harrington sounded like he might have been trying to laugh around his vomiting, in a painful sorta way. He made a choking sound. Billy smacked him hard on the back, once. 

“And that shit ain’t my fault, so don’t you go ‘round actin’ like it is. Those kids’re just deranged little psychopaths, that’s why Maxine fits in so well. Don’t know why the hell you was hangin’ out with them in the first place.” But Harrington’s too busy yacking up his guts to really reply. 

Mentioning Maxine reminded him of the little, red-headed bitch of a thorn in his side. And of his old man, and that calm look in his dead eyes while he was polishing his gun, beer on his breath. Billy puckered his mouth a little in annoyance, ‘cause he’d gotten roped into getting Harrington home, and he was running farther and farther behind. 

“Look, just go throw up in your Master Bath, King Steve. I’ve got places to be.” Comin’ from the guy with one small, shitty bathroom in his small, shitty house. “And next time leave the rum to people who can hold their goddamn drink. I won’t be there to save your ass from the cops next time.” 

“Yeah, yeah… thanks a lot, asshole.”

Ungrateful bitch. Billy smirked.

\------------------------

Billy felt a little bad, after helping Harrington to his door and leaving him to deal with his parents like that – they must’ve been up waiting, with all the lights on at two in the morning. Billy bitterly assumed they didn’t care much about somethin’ like a power bill, or worried about the lights getting cut when it wasn’t paid. And he figured Harrington’d probably get a reaming, but his mom’d be there to take care of him anyway. 

When he pulled the Camaro up to his own curb, there were no lights on in Billy’s house, which was to be expected. He killed Lenore’s engine.  
He didn’t have no parents waiting up like the Hawkins golden boy.

But all the same, Billy looped around to the side of the house, and slid up his window where the white paint was peeling, sharp bits catching on the skin of his palms. It was perfectly silent because he’d WD-40’d the shit out of the squeaky thing when they’d moved in. 

Billy slithered in through the open window like a moonlit silver snake on it’s belly, landing on his boots in an easy crouch, there on the grungy carpet in absolute, pitch darkness. The house was still, with only the common sounds of settling in the old beams that Billy usually fell asleep to. Seemed like his old man must be asleep. 

Billy started towards the lamp on the makeshift milk crate nightstand, which he knew the route to from the window by heart without running into shit, but he suddenly paused. Froze. Tilted his head with a slight frown, the lines of shadow from the blinds across half of his face, jaw edging out sharply from his neck as he held his breath. 

Listened. Something was wrong.

There was a faint shuffling sound. So light, so delicate that it could have easily been the wind, but no…Billy was sure it was coming…from inside the room. It came again. 

Billy blinked, chin canting down as he zeroed in on the source. It was coming…from under his bed. The mattress and box spring used to just be on the floor, but he’d raised them up with cinderblocks for some extra storage, and something about the height helped him sleep better. 

The first thing that came to mind was that somehow an animal had gotten in. If it was another fuckin’ possum, Billy thought…one had gotten stuck in the crawlspace when they’d first moved in and it had been an absolute nightmare. Neil had made BILLY get rid of it. 

Billy didn’t want some frightened, cornered possum in his face again, but all the same, he very slowly reached down to flick on his bedside lamp – it didn’t have a shade, so the light was a little direct from the bulb, and it cast strange, harsh shadows everywhere. 

Billy was about to grab a flashlight out of the drawer when he heard a crackle of static. Like from a walkie. That was no possum. Something in Billy’s chest cavity slowly began to curl up, tightening, twisting, making it difficult to breathe. Like he was still holding his breath, even if he wasn’t. His lungs wouldn’t quite expand all the way, somethin’ clampin’ ‘em shut. Maybe his ribs were shrinking, poking their sharp edges into his soft innards. 

He wanted to be _angry_. Wanted to be pissed at her for coming into his room when she knew she wasn’t allowed, even if she tried to all the damn time. He’d told her to stay in her damn room. Billy haltingly began to lower himself to the carpet, because all he felt was real damn afraid of what he was gonna find under that bed. 

He shouldn’t have left, he shouldn’t have left, he shouldn’t have left, the mantra repeated over and over in his head, he fuckin’ _knew_ it, but he’d done it anyway, like a fuckin’ moron, and now…now…what? 

Billy’s knees hit the carpet as he lowered himself onto his elbows to peer under the black rectangle of space beneath the bare box spring. He saw a flash of ginger light hair, shining like copper. Billy sucked in his lower lip, biting it hard, hard enough to taste the tang of blood – until he could come back to himself from the spark of pain. The one thing that could pull him back. 

“Maxine?” Billy said all low. 

There was no reply. Only more of that shuffling sound. Billy swallowed, the line of his throat bobbing, once, twice, 

This time he used a softer voice. Like he was talkin’ to some scared animal, like a possum trapped in the crawlspace. It sounded foreign on his tongue. Nothin' about Billy Hargrove was gentle. 

“Madmax?” 

“Billy,” Maxine sighed in what might have been relief from the recesses of the dark. Like she’d been waitin’ for him or some shit. 

Then she was slowly clambering forward, towards him, scraping the back of her Realistic walkie along the carpet with a scuffle. Hair hanging around her head like a tangled curtain.

“Madmax, what’re you – “ Billy started, then stopped when he saw her. Hissed under his breath, still like some snake. 

“Shit.” He _felt_ like a snake. 

Shouldn’t have left. All for what? Fucking Becky Winslow. He hadn’t even _wanted_ to. Billy was gonna throw up. Couldn’t breathe.

Billy’d been mad at Maxine for a long time. For years. He’s just been so _angry,_ and she’d been such an easy person to take it out on. It had started before they’d left California, he knew that, if he was being honest with himself. The driving force behind them going to Indiana? That had been Maxine’s fault, and hell, it had only made it easier to hate her. Made things worse. It had added more fuel to a fire that had already been smoldering embers, bursting to life with flickering flames. 

After his mom had died, well…Neil had gotten worse. After he’d cut Billy’s hair over that cracked porcelain sink, he’d gotten worse. Like he had nothin’ holdin’ him back anymore. Or maybe it was because he didn’t have the outlet of throwin’ Billy’s mom around anymore, and Billy had been the next best thing.

It wasn’t that Neil had never popped him a few when he deserved it while she’d still been alive – just not as much. Not as often. Not as hard. After that, it seemed like all there was between them. And it had been normal. Billy knew it was for things he had done wrong, things he’d fucked up, and Billy always needed to be better. Neil was teaching him lessons, trying to make him better, make him a better man, even at the age of twelve. 

According to Neil, that was old enough. He wasn’t a boy anymore, and he needed to act like it. Back then, Billy thought that’s how it was for everyone. Because it was normal. And hell, maybe it was more normal than he thought, ‘cause the cops didn’t care, even when they knew. It only made it worse when the cops knew, and they didn’t do anything about it. 

So maybe it really was normal, behind the curtains, and just…nobody ever talked about it. Even now. Billy didn’t know. That was a difficult distinction for him to make, to understand. 

But when his dad had started dating Susan when Billy was fourteen, his mom two years dead, Maxine had been ten. She’d been this little firecracker psycho with a mouth on her, just like she was now, and Billy had liked her almost instantly. Liked her fire. Even though he was fourteen, and turning into a ‘piece of shit teenager,’ he’d still liked her. Even if he picked on her and gave her shit a lot, and those first few years…they’d been pretty alright. Maybe he’d always wanted a sibling.

Her followin’ him around like a clingy pup, wanting to do all the cool shit he did, ‘cause he was a goddamn rockstar out in Cali. Who wouldn’t want to hang out with him? He was a people person - drew them in like moths to the flame. Same thing here in Hawkins, to a lesser degree, for a lesser town. But damn if she hadn’t been an annoying little sister, and he’d always had to let her tag along, and to a younger teenage Billy on the streets of Oceanside and out on the beach, she’d seriously harshed his vibe.

Even if he hadn’t exactly minded…not that much. Just gave her a lot of shit. Billy had been put in charge of watching Maxine, her glorified babysitter and brother, so they did most everything together. Shell collecting, rollerblading, teaching her how to surf, and the kinds of people you avoided on the streets ‘cause they was pushin’ crack, goin’ to see Mad Max 2 in theaters, and him slamming a boy’s head into a pole ‘till he bled red when the little shit’d tried to get his hand up her shirt. She’d come crying to Billy ‘bout it, ‘cause she couldn’t tell her ma. He'd done somethin' about it.

But she’d gotten older. Years ticked by. She’d turned twelve. But Neil never hit her, never pushed her, never slammed her into a wall, or shoved her down the stairs. Never poured beer on her head, or put out a cigarette butt on her shoulder. He never _‘taught her lesson’s’_ like he did Billy, even after she was twelve, which was _‘old enough’_ according to Neil. Mabye ‘cause she was a girl, not _‘becoming a man.’_

Even if she ran her goddamn mouth way more than Billy ever did, even when Billy had been driven into being mostly silent at home for fear of raising Neil’s wrath unless he was already being spoken to. He’d spent almost an entire month not saying shit at home out in Oceanside, because nothing that came out of his mouth was _‘respectful’_ enough, and his orders were to stay quiet until he could learn. 

As Maxine just shot the shit. 

That’s when the bitterness had started to set in, like bright blue, frigid antifreeze, deep set in his bones, down in the marrow. He’d always been angry. He got angrier. He knew Maxine wasn’t really Neil’s daughter, and reasonably, he knew that Neil and Susan had some kinda agreement that they’d both manage their own kids _discipline_ or whatever. 

But it still left a sour taste on Billy’s tongue. Because Susan didn’t do none of that shit to Maxine, neither. Maxine never had a bruise on her. Billy was always mottled like a map of old pain. And Maxine talked ‘bout her own dad like he’d hung the goddamn moon in the sky – he didn’t throw her around, neither, it seemed, when he actually took the time to see her. 

Billy’d thought it was normal. So why was it only him? What had he done that was so wrong? What had his mom done? Why were Susan and Maxine excluded? 

The bitterness took root within his heart, spreading like a poison where it’d set into his bones, like a cancer taking over his body. He’d never been close with Susan – there was something ‘bout her trying to step in as his mom that never set right with him, and no matter how much she’d tried that mothering shit with him, it made it worse and worse and worse until he could only scream at her. His mom was fuckin’ dead. And that just got him in more trouble.

That was around when she’d started gettin’ scared of him. And Maxine…that’s when he’d started pushin’ her away. Like it was her fault or something. Her fault for being special, little golden-child Maxine that could do no wrong. God, he’d hated her. He’d _HATED_ her. He _still_ hated her. 

Because it had gotten worse, right before they moved to bumfuck-smells-like-cow-shit nowhere. Once she’d started to hate him too, it had gotten worse. Then the little fuckin’ rat had outed him, and he’d ended up with four broken ribs, sternum, and hand, with a severe concussion to boot. The neighbors had called the cops like they was doin’ him a favor. Then, it was _Maxine’s_ fault he was getting the shit beat out of him. And the two of them couldn’t go back from that, it seemed. 

But…but he hadn’t wanted this. Even though she never got it like he did, he’d never _wished_ it upon her. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, the hidden part of his heart, that he’d only been jealous. Even if he couldn’t come to terms with that, or face that, he could only _blame_ her, he’d been jealous. 

So jealous it burned in the back of his throat like acid whenever he saw her, made him see white, made him lash out at her so that she could _feel_ how _HE_ felt. Bruising her wrist in the circle of his fist, throwing things, _BREAKING_ things, screaming at her loud enough it made him hoarse, just to watch that frightened look skitter across her little shit-eating face. 

Because he was afraid _all the time._ Why shouldn’t she be? It wasn’t fair. _Nothing_ was fair.

But all the same, he’d always purposefully put himself between Neil and Maxine – even as she’d gotten older, got to the age she could take it, as Neil would say – always drew the attention back to himself when she said some stupid shit, ‘cause especially after the move, he’d started to see the looks Neil was givin’ Maxine. 

Like maybe she really did deserve to be shown her place, just like Billy. 

And even if Billy hated her, even if he hated her, hated her, hated her, for NOT being treated like him…he didn’t want her to get hurt, either. It was fucking _confusing_. He didn’t _understand_ himself. It was _him_. Billy. Billy was the problem. He knew he was fucked up. That was why his old man always had to correct him, show him how to be right.

*************

But now, there was a big bruise blossoming across Maxine’s pale, freckled cheek. Right across the cheekbone, like she’d gotten backhanded hard. Still braced on his knees and forearms, Billy slumped onto his elbows, curling his hands into tight fists, wound so that he could dig his nails into crescent marks in the meat of his palms. 

He bowed his head between his arms, golden curls tumbling down into his face as he tried to catch some kind of breath. Maxine edged out from under the bed, forcing him back as she crawled into the glare of the bare light bulb. Her mouth was pinched, and she looked paler than usual, knuckles white where she gripped the walkie-talkie in a death hold. 

Billy rose up to rest on his calves and knees, sitting back on his boot heels as his shoulders slumped – one hand lying listlessly in his lap, as the other reached out to gently touch at the mottled mark on Maxine’s cheek – it’d be worse come morning. She winced and pulled back.

“What happened?” He whispered, voice hoarse. Like he’d been screaming.

The hand in his lap was slowly curling into a fist, tightening, relaxing, tightening again. He wanted to punch something, and that something was himself, right in the face. He wanted to punch himself so hard he’d hear bone crack, and he’d be out cold until morning. Maybe he’d drown in his own blood from a broken nose. 

“I’ll get you ice. I told you to stay in your fuckin’ room.”

Maxine pulled away from his hand, her ocean blue eyes – like the Cali sea – flitting away from him as she chewed on her lip in that guilty way of hers when she’d fucked up. 

“I…I know. I didn’t listen.”

“No shit.”

“I left my backpack by the door, I had to go get it. It had my Sex Wax in it.”  
Maxine muttered defensively. 

Still not meeting his eyes, even as Billy was burning holes into the side of her stupid head. She chewed on her lip s’more, as if she was thinking about what she wanted to say. 

“I think…I think maybe, maybe he thought I was you. I don't know.” She said after a minute.

“Oh yeah, ‘cause you _had_ to wax your board? And Jesus, don’t say _‘Sex Wax’_ like you’re some surfer chick." In fact, never say 'sex' again. Ugh. He was gonna vomit. Why the hell'd they name that shit 'sex wax?' Fuck. It was only cool when BILLY said it. Not his little sister. That was what Billy had used on his old surfboard, and Maxine was a little copycat. Using it on her skateboard now like she was hot shit. "Couldn’t wait one _goddamn night_? ‘till I got back?” 

Billy chomped out the words like stones in his mouth, and he was looking away now – glaring at the dirty brown carpet, so unlike Harrington’s posh, plush, perfect white carpet. Of course Neil would have thought it was Billy. Wouldn’t lay a finger on perfect Maxine. Not on purpose. 

“Course he thought it was me. _Shit,_ Maxine.”

“I know, okay? God, I’m sorry! I just…but I…” Maxine seemed to curl in on herself a little, a rare look for her, and she had dropped her walkie to twist her hands together all anxious-like. “Uh, well, I – “

Billy felt himself grow colder. She looked guilty as sin. 

“You what?” 

Maxine audibly swallowed, her throat clicking with nerves, and her gaze flicked to Billy only once before she had to look away again, jutting her chin out like being stubborn might help somehow.

“Look, I…I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Billy, that I, I forgot your birthday. And that I, I didn’t mean to _tell_ – “ 

Billy’s hands formed fists in his lap again, as he just slouched there on his knees, defeated, staring at her purposefully not looking at him. Tell? TELL?

“……what did you do?” He asked her real quiet. In that dangerous voice his old man used. Felt like he was shaking apart. Fingers trembling. 

Everything was so fucked up. He was so fucked up.

He felt like he was having some kind of acid de-ja-vu trip, with her sayin’ _‘I didn’t mean to tell,’_ like that, and everything was getting’ real small, like his head was shrinking, and the floor was gonna give away – a real sink hole just open up beneath him, and it’d suck this whole shit-hole down with it, including him.

Maxine sucked in her lips so they were almost invisible in the line of her mouth, and she was throwing this worried blue fire at him with her eyes like she was maybe gonna cry, they were all shiny, and he hadn’t seen her cry in years. 

Not since her dad had stopped coming to see her for their visiting times out in Cali. She’d insisted it was just because he was busy.

When she spoke, it was in a real hoarse whisper, like she couldn’t find the words. 

“I didn’t mean to tell him, it was an _accident_. He just kept – he just kept on yelling at me, asking me where it was, and pushing me. And then he hit me and it just – it just came out.” A single tear slipped down her colorful, purpling cheek.

Billy’s hands went numb.

“What did you tell him. " Billy breathed. His words turning into ice, frost spreading over his tongue like freezer burn. _"What did you DO Maxine._ ”

“I…I told him…………..where the money is.” Maxine whispered. So soft.

“No.”

No. No. _No no no no no no no no. NO._

Billy shot to his feet, and he was opening his door to dart on silent feet out into the hallway of the darkened house. He strode through the shadows and gloom and uneasy silence, couldn’t even feel himself moving, until he was standing in the what susan called the 'sitting room', flipping on the switch to the overhead hanging lamp. 

Billy’s hands fled to his head, fingers tangling into the mess of his frizzy, curly mane, gripping tight, and pulling so hard he thought his scalp might actually tear off. 

_“Fuck.”_ Billy panted, and he would never own up to the word sounding like a whimper. When it came out again, it was stronger. Pulling even harder at his hair, needing the pain. “FUCK.” 

The big, rectangular, heavy glass jar that had been sitting on the edge of the green mantle – full of seashells collected from the Cali coast – had shattered on the floor. Great big, thick chunks of warped glass were scattered there, alongside a thousand shells – some still whole, some in fragile, broken pieces. Like the jar had been lifted up and slammed down with great force. 

The whole half of the sitting room floor was all bits of shells and glass. And no money. No recognizable, green wad of paper cash. 

But Billy couldn’t help himself, panting out _‘no, no, no’_ under his breath, he was on his knees, feeling the crunch of broken shells beneath the black denim – digging into the fabric, bloodying his knees as he crept through the ruins of glass and old ocean memories. 

“Mother _fucker_ ….” He choked.

His blunt, callused fingertips skimmed through the shells, sending them skittering, as if he could upturn a scallop or peer beneath the belly of a sand dollar to uncover the roll of hundreds. Literally his entire life savings. The money that had been going to get him the fuck out of this shit town, and this shit house, away from these shit people. Going back to Cali, maybe another state – anywhere but here. Hell, Canada if it got him away from Neil. 

Hidden in one of the only places Neil would have never looked. Not in his room. Not even in Lenore’s trunk. Hidden in plain sight. If Maxine hadn’t narked, Neil NEVER would have known. Now he probably _really_ thought Billy was gonna run. And he was…he _was_ going to. He was legal now. But he’d needed that extra month ‘till graduation.

Billy furled forward like his spine was going to connect in a perfect circle, choking on a sob he wouldn’t release, his hands wrapping up around fistfuls of shells, making them grate and grind together, until he felt them pierce skin. Felt blood well up. 

He was so dizzy, and he couldn’t breathe, and he was freaking the fuck out. He knew this was the first break of the storm that he’d been predicting over his pops head all week, and he hadn’t gotten to the eye of that storm yet, but hell he was freaking out. 

The money was gone. It was gone, it was gone, and holy hell he was so fucked. That had been _all_ of his money. He hadn’t been able to get a bank account as a minor, and he hadn’t found some Hawkins Hillbilly forger that could make fake ID’s to open an Indiana bank account. They’d been a dime a dozen in Cali. Not here. So he’d done what he could. 

And it was all _gone_. Billy was the trapped possum in the crawlspace. He sensed Maxine at his back. He dropped the fistfuls of golden, bloody shells to the carpet as he turned on her like a monster. Always the monster.

_‘Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change. The sun might shine or the clouds might lower, but nothing could appear to me as it had done the day before. A fiend had snatched from me every hope of future happiness; no creature had ever been so miserable as I was.’_

It was gone. All of his dreams for the future, the surety that everything would work out, that he would be _ok_ , were gone.

His _hope_ was gone. 

Billy started cackling, laughing, wheezing with it, mad with it - the laughter was sharp and crazy, shards of glass in his fucking lungs. Jesus Christ. So fucked.

Without that money, he had no way to get out, and he was trapped. Neil had taken it all away. And it was Maxine’s fault. Just like California. He'd lost everything, thanks to her. Twice now.

His crazy laughter died. Billy rounded on Maxine. She stood there with the glaring mark on her face and her hands formed into fists at her sides, mirroring Billy, and her chin was jutted out. Glowering up at him as if daring him to do something about it. All defiant. He could scarcely think. His ears were buzzing, his hands were numb, his heart at a furious gallop.

“FUCK, MAXINE!” He screamed in her freckled face, so loud his throat hurt, spittle flying, mouth open so wide he felt like his jaw might unhinge like that snake. Eyes screwed up. “ _FUCK!!!!!”_

Blood dripped from his clenched fists, steadily, onto the carpet and chaos. 

“That, that – THAT WAS MY GODDAMN TICKET OUT OF HERE! YOU LITTLE – FUCKING - _RAT!”_

He kept screaming, hedging her backwards, towards the wall, until her back hit it. She didn’t have a medieval torture device this time, did she? No bat to protect her, and no little friends. He’d called her a rat before. And he meant it just as much as last time. 

“WHAT? WHAT, NO GODDAMN BAT?! NO NEEDLE?! HUH?! NO LITTLE FRIENDS THIS TIME, MAXINE! YOU’RE SUCH A LITTLE NARK! THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT! _JUST. LIKE. LAST. TIME!”_

Once he started on the word ‘just,’ Billy’s fist started connecting – not with her face, like maybe he imagined – but instead with the wall. He punched it, again, and again, and again, and again, _just – like - last - time._ He seethed with pure violence, with rage, with helplessness. Oozed it out of his damn pores. Written into the ragged lines of his body.

Puncturing striped wallpaper and drywall, rattling the house structure, spraying Maxine and himself with a dusting of white. It clung to bloody, cracked knuckles, the white turning red into pink frosting. Maxine flinched each time his fist connected, and she seemed to get angrier with each one, too.

“I told you it was an accident!” She yelled back. “I said sorry!”

“OH YEAH AN ACCIDENT! WELL THAT MAKES EVERYTHING ALRIGHT! JUST LIKE LAST TIME! WELL FUCK YOU AND YOUR _ACCIDENTS,_ YOU LITTLE BITCH! YOUR SORRY DON’T MEAN _SHIT!”_

“Well why were you going to leave! You were just going to leave us!” 

“LIKE I CAN STAY HERE?! YOU PROBABLY DONE IT ON PURPOSE! I WASN’T LEAVING YET!”

“Oh yeah right, your dad said – !!!“

“AND YOU BELIEVED HIM?! I WASN’T! FUCK, I – _I NEEDED TIME!”_

Billy was gasping now, clutching at his chest, couldn’t _FUCKING BREATHE_ because he was so damn screwed and he needed to hit someone, to tear into someone, and he couldn’t with Maxine, he couldn’t. He was going to die in this town, and be buried in a grave of cow manure.

Tears pricked dangerously at his eyes. His nose burned. He fucking hit the wall again. 

“GODDAMMIT! I SOLD MY _GUITAR!_ I SOLD MY _BOARD!_ I SOLD _EVERYTHING, MAXINE!”_

He had. Before they left Cali. Everything he could to get the money to get himself _back_ there, as soon as he could. There was nothing worth any value in Billy’s name anymore besides the Camaro, and he couldn’t very well get to California without Lenore if he sold her.

“I know, I’m _sorry!_ ” 

He had nothing, and no way to earn it back.

A door slammed open in the rear end of the house, hard enough to hit the wall with the door handle. Hard enough to leave a mark. Billy flinched, backing away from Maxine as she jumped in shock, and he felt the blood rush swiftly out of his head, leaving him lightheaded. 

Everything was swimming, and he was stumbling over seashells and broken bits of thick glass, crunching them like pop rocks beneath his boots. Crushed California dreams. 

Maxine was gaping up at him, before peering wildly toward the archway leading into the kitchen. Then Billy’s dad was there, in the shadows of the kitchen, lit by the single light hanging in the living room. He was wearing only a white wife beater and the plaid boxers he slept in. His black leather belt with the silver buckle was hanging from his hand. 

“Oh _shit.”_ Billy choked. Staggering back, prickling in a cold sweat. 

He hadn’t thought about Neil. He’d been so, so focused on the money, on, on that little rat Maxine, he hadn’t – 

Neil’s _belt_ was hanging from his hand. Billy hadn’t gotten the belt in over a year. He’d learned enough to manage to avoid it, although he still had a few old scars across his back from the few times the buckle had caught. But no one seemed to ever notice or mention in the locker rooms, or when he played skins on the court. Billy couldn’t see them in the mirror well, so he’d assumed they’d faded as he lost most of his Cali tan. When he was actually golden with summer sun, he knew they stood out worse under the beams. The belt mostly left these long lines of bruises, bitter, dark contusions...bruises that faded with time.

“You want the neighbors to hear all our business? You think you can hide things from me? I'm sure you've noticed it's gone. You won’t find it.” Neil snapped quietly as he strode purposefully into the room, straight for Billy. He stank of beer. He’d probably been passed out drunk, which was why he hadn’t come for Billy earlier, when he’d first found Maxine in his room. 

Neil didn’t shout. And Neil didn’t scream. Neil had a deadly calm voice, even while drunk. A voice you _remembered._ A voice you _respected._

“You aren’t going _anywhere._ ” Neil said real careful, slurring, as he came at Billy, the belt wrapped around his fist. “You try to abandon this family? You’ll learn. You don’t abandon family, even if they’re a _fucking_ disappointment like you. _Nothing_ is more important than family, boy, and you only get the one.”

Neil was snatching Billy’s keys from his jean pocket, along with a couple rubbers and a leather wallet – dropping them on the floor amidst crushed shells and shit - struggling to forcefully yank Billy’s denim vest off over his arms, grappling with him– it wasn’t a hard job, there wasn’t much fabric there to remove. He finished by grabbing him by the biceps to twist him around. The stench of beer was strong in Billy’s face before he was forced to face the wall. It made him dizzy, made the house twirl like a kaleidoscope of fear. 

There was a pause as Neil readied the belt, and it took a second for Billy to realize something else. There was the sound of shuffling paper, like plastic on leather, and a crumple of wrappers.

"Who is Steve Harrington?" Came his pops deadliest voice at Billy's back, real slow. The special one. Just for him. That one that dripped disgust, disappointment. Driving spikes of fear into Billy's heart. "And why do you have his wallet....with condoms?" 

Billy's stomach dropped into his damn boots as he cowered face first against the wall. He'd forgotten the wallet. _Harrington's_ wallet. Billy was a dead man. He was fucking dead. And there was no God. He hung onto the medal at his chest all the same. The metal edges digging into his bloody palm. Prayed for Mary, full of grace, mindlessly, like he was twelve again. Like it wasn't his eighteenth birthday today, and he was only a child, trapped against the wall.

"You told me you were going out with a Rebecca. But you were _fucking_ him, you little _queer?_ Weren't you? Do we need to go over this _again?_ Christ, William, how do I get this THROUGH to you? HUH? That it's _WRONG._ You're wrong in the _head,_ boy." He sounded so disappointed, and so...so done. One time had been one too many. Billy wasn't going to get a second chance. There was no fixing him.

"I _didn't_! I wasn't, sir, I was with _her_ \- I was with that girl, not him, I -" 

"I can smell his goddamn _cologne._ Don't you _lie_ to me, faggot." Neil positively growled, voice like gravel.

Goddammit. That rich boy, Armani cologne. Not Billy's Jovan Musk drugstore shit. Probably got smeared all over him when Billy'd been toting that golden boy boy around, too hammered to walk. Then he heard, sensed, Neil lift his arm, right at his back. Billy flinched, wincing in preparation, locked his teeth so he wouldn’t _scream._ There was a flash of black leather and silver on skin accompanied a blinding moment of slicing pain as Billy’s palms hit the opposite wall, back arching, hands out to catch himself. Smearing blood on it. His jaw ached, it was clenched so hard, molars creaking, eyes rolling up. Once, twice, again, Billy clinging to the wall, nose sliding down against the worn seventies wallpaper, bloody knees knocking against it.

Fuck him, it’d been a while since he’d gotten the belt. Hurt like a _bitch_.

But then, a blur of copper colored hair, and Maxine was instantly at Billy’s side, and she was smacking pointlessly at Neil’s trunk, trying to shove him away from her step-brother. With no nail-bat or convenient needle in sight.

“YOU LEAVE HIM ALONE!” She hollered up at Neil. Like she wasn’t a puny nothin’, swatting at him like that with her useless fists.

“You mind your own business, you little bitch. You wait until your mother gets home.” Neil said in that calm, business-like voice. Slurring only a little.

The grown man got her by her long curtain of shiny red hair, and threw her away from him, hard – her head bounced off the wall where Billy was braced. Made a sick _thump_. Billy saw fucking _red._

He turned around like he was gonna do shit about it, physically inserting himself between Maxine and Neil. But Jesus, then his pops had him back up against the wall, a bruising grip on his chin and jaw, forcing him backwards. Those bony fingertips digging into the soft parts of his cheeks. Billy ended up flat-backed against the striped, yellow wallpaper. Head tilting backwards where Neil forced it into an unnatural angle, and it was like some kinda Pavlovian bullshit because Billy…

Billy couldn’t do ANYTHING, he _FROZE_ , turned fuckin’ _bitch,_ he was such a _weak piece of shit,_ just like his dad _said_ he was - but he – he – he was ready to just let it happen. It was easier once he was on the ground, once he could curl up, and could block it out. Like he always did. 

However, he was only ready for it to happen to _him_ , not to Maxine – but the game had changed - the smaller girl was next to him, rubbing her head, with tears streaming down her cheeks, swallowing muted sobs. Maybe Neil _hadn't_ thought it was Billy earlier. Maybe Maxine was 'old enough' now. 

Billy couldn’t do anything about Neil. He _couldn’t._ Even if he knew he was bigger. Even if he knew he was stronger. He was terrified.

But he could do something about her. He could get her out. 

Once his old man let his hand drop to favor a hit to the face instead - as Billy predicted he would - before it could land, Billy immediately knelt down and swept Maxine up into his arms. He made a straight path for the door – effectively running. Neil was coming after him like a thundercloud on the horizon, sure to electrocute him. 

“Where do you think you’re going, boy? You come back here, William! You don’t run from me. You know what happens when you _disobey_ me! I _break_ things!” Like he’d break Billy. Billy heard the belt snap in Neil’s fists, like a promise. 

Billy was on the sun porch, and out the screen door, and he was fucking _RUNNING_ with Maxine bundled into his arms. Like she was five, not thirteen, with her scrawny arms curled around his neck. She seemed dazed. Lenore was locked. No keys.

"You can't run from me, William!" His pops called, voice low so as not to draw the neighbors attention.

So Billy left the car at the curb. He kept going instead, bare chest heaving, humming with pounding blood, adrenaline pumping. Wild eyed, in only his jeans with the bloodied knees, holding onto Maxine, who flopped in his arms like a little bobble-head. Billy braced one hand behind her injured head, holding it secure against his chest, to try and keep it still as he just…fucking… _ran._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- excerpt from M. Shelley's Frankenstein
> 
> -Mr. Zog's Sex Wax (80's reference): This stuff is still around, it's been around since the 70's. It's a surf wax, but also used on the deck, nose or tail of skateboards for landing tricks at somewhere like a skate park.  
> Image: https://www.hobiesurfshop.com/pub/media/catalog/product/cache/image/700x700/e9c3970ab036de70892d86c6d221abfe/sex-wax-7526_1.jpg


	18. I shouldn't be in love with you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 13th, 1985

Billy Hargrove carried Maxine as far as his adrenaline took him - not like she was heavy, though, so it wasn't a problem. He got off the street, abandoned the cracked sidewalk, dipping back into the dark space between some neighboring houses. Then he was striding through people’s backyards, jumping chain link fences, or circling wooden ones – avoiding pole swing sets whose swings stirred eerily in an unseen breeze, and kicking through sandboxes. Lit by only moonlight. The fuel from his adrenals kept him going fast, glancing over his shoulder more than looking ahead. 

Maxine eventually began to stir.

“Put me _down._ ” She said all pissy, like the ungrateful little shit she was.

She seemed annoyed enough at being carried that he set her down, her bare feet curling up in the slowly greening spring grass. She swayed there like a stiff breeze might knock her over.

The grass crunched beneath her soles with early morning, April frost. Hell, it hadn’t been this cold earlier. Billy could see her breath. He supposed he could see his own too, shimmering clouds before their faces. Maxine was only in her Star Wars pajamas, and Billy shirtless – it wasn’t exactly a pleasant Cali night. Fuck Indiana. Even the spring tulips glistened with a coating of ice.

“Keep going, Maxine.” Billy had to urge her on. 

She reluctantly trudged along at his side, walking tenderly when they crossed patches of gravel, or dirt.

“And where _are_ we going, Billy? What the hell just happened?”

Billy swallowed, glancing over his shoulder again out of habit, as they skirted another fence to slip through the tree-line bordering the backyards. Maxine hissed, her toes curling up as she hopped over the pine needle carpet and jutting stones of the forest floor. She mumbled something under her breath and rubbed her head where it’d smacked the wall.

Billy was frowning as they made their way back to softer ground, a neatly trimmed lawn. He’d been asking himself that same question for the past ten minutes. He didn’t know. He didn’t know where the hell they were going. To be honest, his head was kind of swimming with the fact that they were going _anywhere._

Shit, he’d never done anything like that before. He never ran. Never. The way Neil called after him, telling him he couldn’t _run_ from him…it was haunting him. It’s why he’d gotten off the damn road. He kept his ears pricked up for the low grumble of Neil’s huge Ford truck, a monster of a thing. Ate diesel like it weren’t nothin’. They’d hear it coming, even with the buffer of houses between them and the street.

Neil was gonna fuckin’ kill him. Maybe he’d been about to kill him, anyway, especially after finding Harrington's goddamn wallet and _rubbers_ of all things. And Billy’d have let it happen, he knew – they’d gotten close to that before. Last time Maxine’s narked.

Billy’d _ran,_ he’d _ran, he’d ran, he’d ran,_ the thought kept rattling around in his brain like some old junk left around in a drawer. When he saw Neil next, he’d be dead, or worse. 

"FUCK IF I KNOW, Maxine! _Alright?!”_ Billy snarled at her, lashing out.

Maxine puffed out her cheeks as she pursed her lips with her usual stink face, glowering up at him. That mottled bruise on her cheek was steadily growing darker with the passing time. She was shivering. So was Billy. What the hell were they doing?

“Well this was your bright idea, _dumbass!”_ She snapped back. “You don’t even know where to go?!”

“I wasn’t exactly plannin’ it out, shitbird!” 

Billy huffed out a rough sigh as they plodded through some other Hawkin’s house’s backyard. Billy kicked a rock at a grill, and it bounced off with a metallic _‘ping!’_

“Well _that’s_ obvious. Asshole.” 

Billy was gonna kill her.

“Yeah, fuck you too.”

They trudged along for a while longer in a tense silence. Billy was tryin’ to keep track in his mind of what street they were walking parallel with, even if he had no particular destination in mind. 

“Look, where you wanna go? I’ll drop you off wherever.”

Maxine was silent for a moment, chewing it over as she tugged at a lock of her long, ginger hair. Billy realized she had a trickle of liquid on her temple – it caught in the moonlight just right that he could see it. Billy wiped it up with the palm of his hand, making her hair stick up funny like Alfalfa or some shit. She glowered up at him, swiping her hair back down. Head wounds just bled a lot. She'd be fine.

“El. My friend, you met her before. I want to go there.”

Billy screwed up his face as he tried to think of the little bitch’s band of friends, but he couldn’t remember all of them. Weren’t they all dudes? 

“The hell you mean? Elle? I don’t remember no Elle. Ain’t they all guys? What kinda fairy name is Elle?” 

Maxine rubbed at her temples like he was givin’ her a headache, as if she didn’t already have one from hittin’ the fuckin’ wall.

“She’s a GIRL, _stupid_. _Her_ name is EL. You MET her, a couple weeks ago? I had a sleepover at her place?” 

Billy’s mind finally clicked into place. “Oh yeah. Yeah, that girl. Only saw her through the window, what you mean I met her?” 

The girl’s round, pale face had been poking out from between the curtains like a bright moon when Billy’d gone to get Maxine with Harrington. After that fucked up party. The kid'd been watching him like a hawk. It'd been a little creepy.

“Well okay, you sort of met her. Whatever.”

“ _Semantics.”_ Billy spat, sarcastic.

Billy blanched after a moment of planning out the map in his mind, which was more of a task when you couldn't see the streets. Pausing on the grass as he stared down at her.

“That was way back in the woods. How the hell you expect us to get there, Maxine?” That cabin was pretty far removed from the Hawkins boundaries. “We don’t have any goddamn _wheels.”_

Maxine just shrugged at him like, why was she supposed to figure it out? HE was the ‘adult’ here.

“And why are you just dropping me off? What are YOU gonna do?”

“Dunno. I’ll figure it out.” Quarry? Park? Who knew. Not home.

“Well when can we go home?”

“What’s with the twenty fuckin’ questions? Shit.”

“I just wanna know! What are we supposed to do?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know!” Billy had to strangle his vocal chords to stop from shoutin’ at her again. They were in somebody’s backyard.  
“When your ma gets back. Alright? Then. You fuckin’ happy?” Then Susan could worry about Maxine, and Billy could deal with his dad. Simple.

“Fine.” Maxine scowled, looking down at her bare feet in the frost brittle grass – toes bright pink in the moonlight. She was rubbing at her head again. “I guess, whatever. It’s your fault we’re out here anyway.”

“Oh, oh _MY_ fault?” Billy asked in a deadly voice, rocking back on his damn boot heels with that one. 

Maxine puffed out her cheeks again, making a sulky face, looking away.

“Don’t start it. Don’t you _FUCKIN’_ start it. I ain’t doin’ this shit with you tonight, _Maxine._ ” Billy muttered as he started stalking forward again, laying out that map of Hawkins in his mind, and the correlation to that rural cabin. "Not tonight."

He didn’t want to fall back into the blame game he and Maxine were so fuckin’ fond of. This wasn’t the damn time or place, it was cold as balls at three in the morning, and Billy was, quite frankly, exhausted. 

They kept walkin’. Billy started altering their course so that they were headed towards that Elle girl’s cabin, and if his calculations were right, they weren’t too far off.  
He thought, briefly, of the open invitation to the Byers’ place. Thought even more briefly about that Joyce woman. Her, with her cellophane look, and lotion-soft mom hands. No, he didn’t want to go back there. He’d rather turn and go back to the house than go back there. And he, just as briefly, thought about Steve Harrington’s enormous castle over in Loch Nora, lit up with the lights on and parents that waited up at the door.  
Definitely not there. 

He’d just get Maxine wherever she wanted to screw off to, then he’d be on his own until Susan got back. It was easier that way. When he only had to worry about himself. Not Maxine. If that had been the case back at the house, they wouldn’t be in this shitfest.

Billy and Max lived over on old Cherry Road in the poorer side of town, close to the Byers, opposite of Loch Nora where Harrington’s castle and Nicky’s place was. So far, they had turned off along Elm – from there, follow it all the way until they got to Kerley, and eventually Randolph Lane – where the old building for Benny’s Burgers was. Then, they would be close to the cabin out there in the middle of nowhere. Close to Lover’s Lake, shaped like a heart, way out past the few farms out that way.

Billy knew all the streets like the back of his hand. This place was chump change compared to the sprawling streets of Los Angeles and the surrounding suburbs. He’d driven them up and back and down again, with no respect for stop signs, flashing yellow stoplights, or crosswalks, really – least of all speed limits. There wasn’t no road he didn’t know.

The two siblings lulled into silence as they trudged on, skirting the roads until eventually, a moisture heavy fog settled over the grass, wisping around their legs. Maxine was shivering, and was lagging behind, her legs shorter than Billy’s – bare foot. Eventually she just stopped, appearing washed out with exhaustion.

“What’s up, Maxine?”

Billy paused, glancing up at the clear, bright sky, before directing his gaze back to her slumped form. Lit only with star and moon glow. Her lips were pursed, her bruised face blue in the moonlight - stubborn and sour, chin canted down as she refused to look up at him.

Tilting her face away to hide it in the curtain of her hair when he looked down at her, clearly expecting him to yell at her. 

“’m cold. My feet hurt.” She said it with a dubious tone between clenched teeth, like her own weakness annoyed her.  
Or like she expected _consequences_ – usually, Billy had a lot of those when she said her stupid ass shit. She lifted a hand to her head once more, but she didn’t add that to her list of grievances, even if it was obvious.

Billy’s arms flexed with frustration, and with the cold, before he finally reached a decision. He lowered himself down, kneeling before her, tilting his head down. He didn’t have no _‘consequences’_ this time. Not tonight.

“C’mon.” He grit out.

“Are you serious?” Maxine asked, incredulous.

“Just get on before I change my mind.” Billy grunted back.

Maxine hesitated only one more moment, before she reluctantly clambered onto his back. Billy flinched, hard, sucking in a sharp breath through his nose. Jaw working. He had to choke down a wash of bile at her hands clinging all over his back, her legs clamping around his obliques as she scrambled for purchase. He had to fight the urge to throw her off, especially once she got her arms around his throat. It took a lot out of him to turn his back to her, and to let her touch him at all. 

She was doin’ some kinda strangle hold around his throat with both arms, like she was trying to get him in a sleeper hold. A Hulk Hogan fan if ever he knew one. And Billy’d been choked too many times in his life, and not in a _GOOD_ way, so it was puttin’ him in a real bad place. Makin’ him edge towards panic, the too-tight arms making air seem short, combined with her weight making the bruised welts _ache._ It was PISSING him off.

So he shook his head real violent, curls stirring against her chin. 

“No – “ He choked out, panting, impatiently shaking her a little with the hands he’d hooked beneath her legs. He tried to still his face into an emotionless mask. Tried to lower his voice, even it out. “Not around my throat, what _are_ you, a _python_ – _fuck_ – my shoulders, the shoulders.” 

She got the message pretty quick, and loosened her choke hold around his throat to instead grasp at his shoulders. Billy still had some trouble breathing with her clamped onto his back like a little koala before he staggered back to his feet. Her weight was nothing to him, his weight training had made sure of that, but he broke out in a cold sweat with the feeling of her skin against his. He wished he still had his denim vest, or anything, as some kind of barrier. Didn’t like to be touched much after Neil's shit, even if it was just stupid Maxine. Didn't like to be touched much at all.

As if the little squirt could do somethin’ to him.

She wasn’t hurting him, wasn’t hurting him, he thought over in his mind. He was taking real deep breaths through his nose, fighting off the urge to toss her to the ground. It helped that he was mostly numb, however, his skin lit up with gooseflesh and pink with the cold. Even though he knew his back hurt like a bitch, he couldn't feel it much. Once he was standing, he adjusted her, lifting her a little so she could settle easier on his back, and started walking again. Her pale feet bobbed on either side of his vision as he walked, peeking out from beneath the hems of her Star Wars pajama bottoms. 

Her mom’d been bitching that she kept outgrowing her shoes too fast, was already up to a size 8. _‘Too big for a girl’_ her mom’d complained. Billy didn’t get it. They looked normal-sized to him.

They walked for a long time like that, piggy-back, in silence. After a while, she lifted one hand from his shoulder to trace a single finger down the long welt lines that crisscrossed his back like chaotic zebra stripes. Made this hot ball of shame gather up in his belly, like acid. Billy hissed at her like a warning until she cut that shit out. 

“Are you okay?” She asked all sad as he kept goin’.

“’course I’m okay.” Billy said, voice monotone. “Why wouldn’t I be okay. I'm fuckin' fine.”

Maxine made a ‘harumph’ sound and leaned into his back like the little koala baby she was. It was getting easier to stand her presence at his back the longer they walked, the more he got his blood pumping. He could feel her leeching heat off his back, too. 

He’d never given anyone a piggy-back ride before, he didn’t think, so it was…weird.

Maxine was talking away in his ear. 

“I…I sorta thought. That maybe…he…but I didn’t know. I didn’t know that he, not until – you know, before Easter.” Maxine muttered. Billy thought he heard an owl hootin’ somewhere. Muffled by the fog.

“Yeah, well.” Billy said. He didn’t have much to say about it. Didn’t want to talk about it.

“And I didn’t…” Maxine cleared her throat, like her mom did when she was flustered or nervous. “I didn’t know what it was like. That it was like that.” 

Maxine probably hadn’t never been hit in her whole short life. How would she know shit? And fuck, Billy hadn’t wanted her to know. Tried to keep the heat off of her. Maxine had fucked that up. No, no Billy had fucked that up. He’d known he shouldn’t leave. He had anyway. It was his fault.

Billy closed his eyes for a second as he wove between the enormous, skinny pine trunks of the forest surrounding Hawkins proper, skirting around the city limits.  
He ground his molars together until his jaw ached. Wearing ‘em down.

He wasn’t saying much back to her. But she just kept her big ass mouth yapping. He wished she’d shut up.

“Your dad is a Grade-A ass hat. Worse than you, even.” 

Billy chewed on the inside of his cheek, tipping his chin down as he ducked beneath a low hanging branch to keep from braining both of them. Worse than Billy? That was sayin’ somethin’, coming from Maxine. "Don't say shit about my dad."

“He deserves it! Has he always done this?” Maxine pushed. 

Billy still didn’t say nothin’. If she was expecting more than a one-sided conversation, she was gonna be disappointed.

Billy Hargrove wasn’t a liar. Not unless he had to be, like with his pops. Lies were sometimes better than blows. And he was too bone-dead tired to lie to her right now. So he didn’t say anything, which was easier.

“We should tell my mom. She’ll know what to do.”

That got Billy’s attention.

“You ain’t sayin’ shit to your ma.” Billy snapped with a scowl. 

“What? Why not?”

“Your ma already knows.” Billy growled. “You can’t say shit to nobody, Maxine. Not your little friends, neither.”

Maxine stirred against his back, readjusting her hold on his shoulders.

“What? You’re kidding. That’s _STUPID_. We should tell my mom, and she can call the cops!” 

“Maxine, you soft in the head or what? You REMEMBER what happened before we left Oceanside. You was there. But you didn’t, you weren’t – “ 

Billy sighed hard, through his nose. More than once tonight, he wished he had a goddamn cigarette. He was itching for one. 

“The cops here are DIFFERENT than Cali. And what? Just tell me.” 

Maybe it was because it was dark. Maybe it’s because it was late, late enough that they were way closer to dawn than sunset. And around three AM, that hazy in-between time, it always seemed to loosen the tongue. Made it easier to talk, especially when he couldn’t see her smart-ass, round freckled face.

“The dumbass neighbors called the cops, Maxine. They called ‘em for a disturbance or some shit. Disturbance, my ass. But they didn’t care, Maxine. They never do. Parents got the right to ‘ _discipline_ ’ their hellspawn any which way they want, and nobody gives a shit – got it? ‘specially not the law. All it did was make it WORSE. Just got my ass in the fuckin’ _hospital_ for havin’ the cops pokin’ around, and I ain’t ending up at no Hawkins General this week thanks to YOU. I don’t _DO_ hospitals. You’ve already fucked me over good. So you keep your trap shut.”

“Well fine. Fine, okay. But what about my mom? She doesn’t know, she couldn’t know. She doesn’t know Neil’s _LIKE_ that.” 

Billy’s nostrils pinched in annoyance as he picked up his pace.

“She wouldn’t LET him do that, Billy.” 

“Like hell she wouldn’t.”

Maxine paused, as if trying to digest what he was saying to her. Billy ground his teeth together, wearing ‘em down with the effort, frustrated. 

Billy had gone through his life ‘ _never telling_.’ You never TOLD.  
‘Cause even when that one teacher noticed the bruises and started askin’ questions only to be shut the fuck down, or the cops got called and just waved it off as a domestic dispute, or a childhood friend that actually took note and Billy suspiciously never saw again once Neil talked to their folks – it never CHANGED anything, the rules were the same, and all it did was piss his old man off more. 'cause in the world they lived in? It was more or less normal. 

But either way, it made the hits come faster, harder, leave deeper marks. Made the words burned into Billy’s mind sting just a lil’ more. And Maxine had to _UNDERSTAND_ that. You _NEVER_ told. Number one rule. If there was one thing Billy knew, it was that. Even if Maxine was a born nark, she couldn’t tell. Those were the RULES. She told her little friends, and they'd disappear too, once Neil got involved.

“You wanna tell her ‘bout your face? ‘bout you hittin’ the wall? You tell her. Go ahead. See what she does. Just do it. Be my fuckin' guest.” 

Maybe he’d be pleasantly surprised, but he doubted it. He knew Susan’s type. 

“Fine! I will!”

“Fine.”

He’d heard ‘em up fighting, late at night sometimes. Heard ‘em fighting, her saying shit like _‘I shouldn’t be in love with you,’_ but of course she was, even if Neil Hargrove was an abusive, manipulative piece of shit. She just couldn’t get enough of that Hargrove dick, Billy supposed. They usually had some kinda loud, make-up hate sex afterwards which was SUPER disgusting, so that had to be it. Jesus Christ, so gross.

Either way, she was too afraid to do shit, and Billy knew Neil had her by the lady balls just as much as he had Billy by his. There was a reason Susan didn’t have no job, just like Billy didn’t. Why she was a glorified ‘ _housewife.’_ Only money got you places in this world, and only money could get you out of one shitty situation into another. And Neil liked control. Money gave him more control. 

No, that woman wouldn’t do nothin’, no matter how much Maxine wanted to believe she would. ‘cause she was in the shit, too. At least Susan didn’t get hit. It was difficult to blame her - difficult to blame her for sticking around, for not getting away, for loving him even when she knew she shouldn't. Because Billy...Billy still did too. In a dark, quiet place in the back of his mind. It was his dad. Billy just...Billy just wished things were _different_. That BILLY was different. Stronger, faster, better, if he wasn't ' _wrong in the head_.' More of a real man. Maybe then, maybe then - his dad would love him, too.

Billy scowled to himself as they finally turned off along Kerley. Getting closer and closer to that cabin of Maxine’s little friend, and he could finally dump her ass.

“Shit, you should have stayed in your room, Maxine. Dammit.”

“I know, alright? I told you sorry. I know that doesn’t mean anything, but I am. He just…he…” Maxine fell into a sulky silence.

But Billy knew what she was sayin’, even if she didn’t put it into words. And he felt guilty as fuck, for screamin’ in her face, _AGAIN_ , even if he’d really been trying real hard not to get up in her stupid face anymore. And hell, he’d really let loose on her tonight – even with her face all jacked up – he knew that. He knew he was a monster.

‘cause even when he’d known she was scared, hiding under _his_ bed, not her own. Waiting for him. And then he’d just screamed at her, gotten her backed up against a wall – like his old man did to him. Fuck. Billy bowed his head as he kept going like they was part of some spider monkey family. 

He knew what his pops was like. And he knew how his dad was able to get anything out of you – _ANYTHING_. And if Billy didn’t stand a chance against that kind of verbal assault, the pushing, that eventual smack – there was no way Maxine would, even with that fire she carried around in her belly on a constant basis.

He wished he had that fire, too – a real one, not one that was just for show. One that he could use to stand up to his pops. Not end up curled on the ground in a fetal position, just trying to keep his damn head. Trying to be anywhere but there, making himself as small as possible. When his pops wanted information, he had a way of getting it out of you, by any means possible. 

Time, distance, and the cold had cooled Billy’s head. Brought him back to earth. Grounded him, if only a little.

“…I get it, Maxine. I get it. Look, I…I didn’t mean to yell at you. Or whatever. I know how he is, alright? I fuckin’ know.” Nobody knew better than Billy. Billy wasn't good with words. He hated them. He never got them right. It was like he was tearing out his tongue when he said it, champing out the words like granite through his teeth. His tone just as much like gravel. _“It ain’t your fault.”_

Maxine’s frame relaxed against his back, even though it was still shakin’ with tremors from the cold, just like him. Letting go of some of the tension she’d been toting around since he got her feet offa the frozen ground, icy mist hanging around their legs. Fuck Indiana.

“It’s not your fault, either.” She admitted, her cheek leaned against his neck and curls, sounding just as dour about the prospect as him. 

He hadn't expected her to say it back. It was always his fault.

“Well shit, I sure as hell feel better.” Billy needled sarcastically. “Weight offa my chest.” 

Maxine squawked and slapped at one of his shoulders, before he tensed at a the deep ache of a welt and she squeaked out a _‘sorry!’_

She looped her arms more easily around his shoulders, careful not to choke him around the throat, but instead leaning against him as if he were a tree trunk, solid. She held onto her own wrist, arms making a perfect circle above his shoulder line.

“You’re such an _ASS_ , Raph, I’m trying to be _NICE_ to you, but you make it really _DIFFICULT_ okay?” 

“One of my better qualities, so I’m told. An' when the hell're you _nice_?”

Billy flipped her off over his shoulder. She flipped him off right back with one of the hands hanging off from his shoulder, before they softened back into a gentle hold.

Fuck it’d been a long time since she’d called him Raph. He didn’t remember the last time. She’d always said as Raphael, he was of course the most angry, but the most loyal brother of the turtles.

"Your ASS? Eugh gross. And I'm _always_ nice, for your information."

“Like hell you are."

Billy had to hide a tight smile in the shadows and dark of the night.  
Finally, Randolph Lane. Passing the empty shell of Benny’s old place.  
After a long while Maxine was talking again about some random shit, breathing all loud and annoying in his ear like she had some gross mucus infection. She was making sniffly sounds from the cold, teeth chattering. 

"You better not be gettin’ snot all over me, Maxine.”

____

She made some big show of wipin' her nose on her sleeve. They walked in a comfortable almost-silence after that. Edging closer and closer to this Elle girl's cabin in the middle of fuckin' nowhere, in the creepy ass forest at almost four in the morning. The stir of night critters in the trees surrounding the road they walked. Maxine seemed to be intent on this as she watched the treeline passing them by. Listening. The cabin was just ahead of them, now. 

____

“You stepped in-between us.” Maxine said eventually, all slow, like it'd just occurred to her. Maybe she'd just remembered. Billy didn’t say nothin’. She just kept goin’ on, though, voice soft. Like she was thinkin’ real hard. “You…holy shit, Billy…you, you _always_ do.”

____


	19. I could kill you right now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 13th, 1985

Billy eyed the glimmering silver wire suspended in midair. Catching on the moonlight like a strand of lightning. He sucked on his teeth and tentatively stepped over the ominous trip wire, wary blue eyes flicking up to the exposed cabin lurking behind the trees. Balancing Maxine precariously on his back, he was starting to tire from her added weight. Slowing down, running out of gas.

"Maxine, tell me these ain't some fuckin' hillbilly hicks that're gonna cut my dick off. Tell me that. I need to hear the words. Who the fuck're this girl's parents? They still flippin' their shit over the Ruskies, or what?"

"What? No, ugh god you’re gross. And she only lives with her dad - sorta dad." Yeah, said the girl that almost tried to knock his dick off. He had a reason to have concerns. 

"The hell does 'sorta dad' mean?"

"She's adopted."

"Oh." Made sense, he guessed. "Jesus, who has an actual trip wire 'round their house..." Billy muttered to himself. 

“What, does it give you the _‘heebie-jeebies?_ ’” Billy could hear the smirk in Maxine’s tone. 

Billy didn’t say it THAT much. A scowl etched over his face, not that she could see it.

“Shuddup. I’m serious. This is how horror movies start, Maxine. You’d be the first one to die.”

“I wouldn’t die, _you_ would.”

“Fuck off, no I wouldn’t. I’m the one that survives until the end.”

“Oh yeah right, in your dreams.”

He walked with caution through the immaterial creeper vines of fog clinging to his legs, squinting at the ground for any other hidden traps. What happened if you set it off? Did land mines go off or what? He didn’t especially feel like being blown up by some psycho. 

“But really, what kinda paranoid, tin-foil-hat wearing asshole rigs up that kinda shit?” Billy wasn’t sure he wanted to find out. And Maxine didn’t say. 

She had gotten real quiet. So had he. They were both tired he guessed, and irritable. It had been a real shitty night. Maxine kept on snuffling up her snot next to his ear. So gross. But even Billy caught himself sniffling with the cold, nose numb. 

The old rustic cabin itself was fenced in by trees, painted black with shadows, silver in mist. Hell, it almost looked abandoned, not like someone actually lived there. Maybe a little haunted, too. Inhabited by angry ghosts of the days when people still went west, following their manifest destiny in covered wagons. As if some sadistic soul of a fur trapper of days long passed lived here.

But as they got closer, Billy could see what looked like the bright white, modern flicker of a television set between one pair of curtains, slightly parted in the center. Then one light clicked on. And then another. Warming the curtains with a buttery glow from within, breathing life into the old rickety place.  
Billy dropped Maxine from where he had her hitched up on his back, letting her get her feet under her as he hung his hands at his sides, fingers twitching as his mouth set into a grim line. 

He was leaving Maxine _here?_ Like HELL he was.

He’d still been sorta fucked up, just a little, when Harrington had drove him out here to pick up Maxine from her little sleepover. So maybe he didn’t remember it being so damn _strange._ Maybe since it had been light out, maybe because he hadn’t been paying attention, maybe ‘cause he’d been paying more attention to Harrington’s pretty face. The curtains fluttered as he clomped up the steps in his big ass, steel toed boots, eying the door with wary, pale blue eyes – watching it like he was about to have a shotgun pointed in his face. 

There was a series of metallic clicks, like locks grinding in their spokes, and Maxine was running up the steps, weaving around Billy like he was an obstacle in a course, and hopped up onto the landing of the porch to wait impatiently in front of the door. 

“Hey, _Maxine_ – “ Billy snapped, scowling, reaching out to grab her by the scruff and yank her back, but the door was already swinging open. 

Billy paused, looking up - one hand extended, eyes caught on the silhouette of a child in the entry way, washed out from the incandescent light behind them. As his eyes adjusted, squinting, he saw that it was a girl - _the_ girl, he assumed – Elle, the one Maxine was friends with. One of the Whiz Kids rat pack. She was barefoot in a long pink nightgown with lace at the hem, and at the wrists of the puff sleeves, with a Care-Bear on the front. The one with a sun on it’s belly. She had this mop of curly brown hair, and watched them with careful, big dark eyes. Billy clenched his muscles and tried not to visibly shiver in the cold when her piercing gaze landed on him. 

“Max. Billy.” Elle said, like she’d been expecting them. Tilting her head, studying them. “Come in.” 

She had this weird, stilted way of talking, like maybe she was a lil’ slow. How’d she know his name? Maxine must’ve told her. Or really, any of the Whiz Kids gang could have, considering they fucking hated his guts. Probably been talkin’ a lot of shit, and if she was one of theirs, she’d heard it all.

Elle stepped back a little, giving them room to come inside, and Maxine barreled forward to envelope Elle in a hug, red tangle of hair rushing into Elle’s face. The girl kept one hand on the door, one at her side, allowing it to happen but not especially participating. As if coming to a realization about what was happening, she slowly raised her hands to place them butterfly-light on Maxine’s shoulders. 

“Hey El.” Maxine breathed out in a rush.

"Hi Max."

Elle closed her eyes once, before Maxine let her go fast and strode into the cabin like she owned the place. 

“I ain’t staying – “  
Billy started, even if he was planning on it until he met this girl’s dad– he’d feel better once he knew who he was leaving Maxine with, and there was no one that could keep a better eye on Maxine than Billy. But those big dark eyes snapped open and locked onto him like a honing beacon.

“Come. In.” Elle repeated, tone firm. 

Her voice brooked no argument, and Billy raised his eyebrows in amusement, lips quirking up at the corner. The fuck did this kid think she was? She was a trip. Bossing _him_ around. And okay, maybe he wanted to make sure that this wasn’t some creepy backwoods cabin with dismembered limbs in the freezer. Double check that the girl’s pops wasn’t some serial killer psychopath like The Night Stalker Maxine was so obsessed with - her own real life Micheal Myers. Fuckin’ tripwires and shit. The kid seemed alright though, if a little strange - not that he actually LIKED any of Maxine's little friends.

As he walked inside, that’s what he told himself - he was checking it out. Making sure it was safe. That was it. Not because of the way she said ‘come in’ like there’d be consequences if he didn’t, or because he was so damn cold. 

Once they were inside, Billy looked around covertly, the grind of locks clicking back into place behind him again – but when he turned to look, the melody of padlocks and slide locks were still, and Elle was hovering nearby, watching him with those big eyes. How she’d flicked them all into place that fast…he wasn’t sure. It was…weird. Not quite right. Billy turned around. The place looked homier on the inside than it did on the outside in the middle of the dark, close night. 

The walls were all wood paneling, adorned with faded old black and white photos, glass eyed deer heads mounted on placards, and a cheesy mounted bass fish with a permanently startled expression. There was a nice old wooden record player that caught Billy’s eye, with cases of vinyl he almost wanted to inspect. The television set had wonky bunny ears, and an old moth bitten patchwork quilt was thrown over the back of a brown cushioned sofa. Although it seemed worn and well lived in, everything was pretty tidy, everything in it’s place; the rickety floorboards swept clean, the huge white porcelain sink empty of dishes. The plaid curtains were shut tight, as if to keep out the world. The interior of the cabin felt like a bubble – with a rickety little kitchen table set up only for two. There was even a chipped, blue glass vase of sunflowers in the kitchen to help brighten it up.

Maxine plopped down onto the sofa, rubbing her pink hands together to draw feeling back into her cold-bright fingers, toes curled up on the floorboards as she looked up at Elle. Elle settled down next to her, lifting a tentative hand to place feather soft fingers upon Maxine’s forehead. Her pale lips parted in concern, dark brows furrowed, as Elle shifted to the side - inspecting that ginger head where a wicked bruise was blossoming, a smear of red over the temple where Billy’d wiped it clean with his palm. 

“Hurt.” Elle said, voice soft.

She only spoke a few words at a time, seemed to have a pretty limited vocabulary. Yeah, she must definitely be slow in the head, Billy thought. Probably explained why Billy’d never seen this particular kid hanging out with Maxine at the school. Home-schooled, maybe. Billy gnawed on a thumbnail and and glanced toward the window. He wanted to leave, but where was the girl's dad? And the heat of the cabin enveloping them was a welcome creature comfort, one he wanted to indulge in just a little longer. Maybe get some feeling back into his fingers before he ventured out again. He didn't exactly know how frostbite worked but damn if he didn't think it was cold enough for that. He wondered what time the sun would rise.

“Uh yeah.” Maxine grimaced, making fists of her hands on top of her thighs. “I guess. I’m okay. It’s not bad. I’m fine.” 

Elle’s big black eyes flicked up to Billy now, with this sort of soul-sucking gaze. Sorta like that Byer’s woman’s cellophane look, but…different. Just different. More revealing, somehow, and if Joyce made Billy feel exposed, known, somehow…this kid took the cake. It was like she was looking into his damn mind, studying him like a particularly interesting insect under a microscope. Picking him apart with a single look, to see what made him tick, like opening the back of a clock to examine the spinning gears.

Or as if Billy were a complicated puzzle she was putting together again to see the entire picture. Made Billy feel like his skin was too tight and he wanted to crawl out of it, that look. Made him want to scratch his damn brain right out of his skull. Yeah. That was it. Made him feel _itchy_.  
Billy frowned at her, a dimple forming between his brows in concentration as he tried to decipher that look from those dark eyes, black pools staring back.

“What’re you looking at?” Billy said. 

“Hurt.” The girl said, repeating herself, with a worried frown.

“I ain’t hurt.” Billy folded his arms across his bare chest.

Elle mirrored him, folding her arms over her chest and gave him an unimpressed look from the sofa. As if she didn’t believe him. Tilting her head and raising a single eyebrow.

“Look, where’re your parents? Dad. Whatever. Wanna ask 'im if Maxine can stay the night.” It wasn’t really night though, anymore – getting closer to morning. 

Elle’s face screwed up a little bit, her nose wrinkling with something like distaste as she glanced at the door with all of it’s paranoid, crazy hundred and one locks. Yeah this kid’s dad was a nutjob. Probably belonged over at Pennhurst. 

“Late.” Elle said like that explained it all.

What? Like her parents were late? Well, her dad, anyways. It was like three in the fucking morning. Later than that.

“Your dad’s late?” 

“Yes. He is late.” 

“Well when’s he getting here?”

The Elle girl just shrugged and glanced at some kinda big machine that Billy didn’t recognize. Like a big radio, maybe - looked like some left over relic from the Vietnam war, like something his dad would have stashed away in the crawl space for a rainy day when another war broke out. Billy thought it might be the kind of radio used for Morse code, but who kept those around? 

Well Billy sure as hell wasn’t leaving Maxine here alone with some kinda paranoid freak in a haunted cabin in the middle of the woods, probably with body parts in the freezer. As if that would bother or phase Maxine with her love of horror movies, and Billy liked the macabre as much as she did, but that didn’t mean he was LEAVING her in that kind of movie. She was his _responsibility,_ dammit – as if he could ever forget that.

But fuck if it hadn’t taken them a long goddamn time to get here, and Billy wasn’t real keen on having to carry Maxine’s ungrateful ass another thousand miles to another one of her freak friends way back in the Hawkin’s proper. 

Billy’s boots creaked over the floorboards as he tromped towards the couch, easing himself down at Maxine’s side, making the cushions shift with his added weight. Made the sofa ripple, disrupting Maxine and Elle. One of Billy’s arms sprawled out over the back of the couch, laying out long.  
Maxine turned around to scowl at him, pale mouth pinched like her mom’s when she was pissy. 

“I thought you were _leaving?_ ” 

“ I just hauled your sorry ass half across this shit town, an’ this is the thanks I get? _‘I thought you were leaving?’_ Fuck. _Typical._ ” Billy frowned, tilting his head back as he eyed the light on the ceiling.  
“I ain’t leaving you here ‘til I meet her dad, seems like he’s some kinda doomsdayer nutjob with a screw loose. The locks? A tripwire? C’mon.” 

He glanced down at her with a skeptive gaze, nostrils pinched. Maxine’s mouth dropped open in exasperation, rolling her piercing blue eyes like he was a damn idiot, scoffing real loud. He didn’t want to leave her here, but the options seemed scarce. She probably just wanted to look cool in front of her little friend.

He wasn’t lookin’ at Elle no more. That look she gave him gave him the heebie jeebies somethin’ bad. And he didn’t say ‘heebie jeebies’ a lot.

“Why you wanna come _here,_ huh?” Billy asked.

“El is my friend. So is her dad. He doesn’t have a screw loose, and he’s not a nutjob. He’s really smart. _You’re_ just a dumbass, and you don’t know _anything_. You're always so paranoid.” 

Billy snorted at that. She really could be an ungrateful bitch, after all he did for her all the damn time. She also got extra bitchy when she was tired. Billy knew that.

“Right. Paranoid? I'm not paranoid. Bad things just happen all the time, and I'm supposed to watch out for you, whether you or me like it or not.” 

“Rules.” Elle piped up. “Not…- a – n-nut..job. Rules. Not stupid.” 

“Yeah, he’s got a lotta rules. And I can take care of myself.” Maxine mumbled.

“You know who’s got a tripwire? And locks up their _cabin_ in the middle of the goddamn woods like Alcatraz? And a Morse code radio? And has _’rules’_ ? Billy made quotations in the air for emphasis on ‘rules’. “Nutjobs. That’s who.” 

Billy didn’t much care what the kid thought of that, it was weird as fuck. He threw his boots up on the coffee table with a clatter, crossing them at the ankles as he sighed. Bracing his fingers in and out to get some feeling back into ‘em, one along the back of the couch, the other curled up in his lap. 

“Jesus, don’t be so rude, El is like – right here. Besides, _you’ve_ got a lot of rules.” Maxine pointed out with a stink face.

Billy snorted again, sneered back at her, “It’s not rude, it’s honest. And maybe, but I’m not to the tripwire and creepy backwoods cabin phase yet, thanks.” 

Elle didn’t seem especially offended. Instead, she got up and wandered off, looking a little lost in her own home, before eventually reappearing with a plaid shirt that was like three sizes too big for Billy. She offered it to him with both hands, standing right in front of him with no apparent respect for personal boundaries. 

Billy’s brows made a v in the middle of his forehead, and she eventually shoved it at him when he didn’t immediately take it. 

“Okay okay, christ.”

“Well just put it on, stupid.” Maxine griped. "Nobody wants to see that."

"Everybody wants to see this. But whatever, fine."

Billy grunted in assent, throwing Maxine a warning look at her smart mouth. But he was getting ready to tug the thing on just to appease the pushy curly haired girl, she leaned forward. With a slim finger she pointed at the Ninja Turtles band-aid on his shoulder that had managed to survive Maxine pawing around with her gross hands.

Billy scowled and pressed back into the quilt clad couch. “The fuck, back off.” No respect for personal space, this one.

She was watchin’ him with big sad eyes now, like he was some long tailed gutter rat starving to death on the side of the road. In the rain. Sad, but not quite like a stray dog or a cat that you’d wanna take home and make into a pet, though. What the fuck was her problem? There was no way she’d know what it was for – even Maxine didn’t know. None of the whiz kids would. Nobody knew but him and his old man, and it was mostly scabbed over now.

Billy shrugged into the plaid sleeves, keeping his face stony still – working not to wince as his damaged shoulder blades pinched in the back with the movement. He left it unbuttoned , rolling the too-long sleeves up to his elbows. The soft, well worn flannel started to pull some heat back into his core, holding it in close, and the feeling was coming back into his fingers, one digit at a time - all pins and needles. The bare, exposed portion of his chest was going bright pink with the burning return of sensation – still a little sticky with alcohol from earlier in the night. It stung like a bitch.

Billy flexed his split, broken knuckles, trying to get the blood moving and expedite the process as he tried to figure out this crazy, pixie-like girl before him. Her eyes kept on pickin’ him apart like that puzzle, a puzzle Billy supposed even _he_ didn’t know all the pieces to, so he wished her good fuckin’ luck with that. His brain felt real itchy again. 

The Elle girl made a contemplative noise in the back of her throat and turned to Maxine on the couch. Then she disappeared for a while into the connected kitchenette, busying herself. Billy and Maxine sat in awkward silence, the shitty TV reception in the middle of the woods crackling away with that commercial for Campbells Soup that was always on, the one with the creepy ice skating kids.

Billy got up as the commercial played and found the bathroom on his own – rummaged around until he found a washcloth and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. He washed his hands good, hissing at the hot water and sensation, then doused the cloth in water and rubbing alcohol. After a minute, he came back out to reclaim his spot on the couch. It stung his hands where the shell shards had dug into his palms, smarting in the tiny, bloody knicks and the craters of his knuckles where he'd punched the wall. He wrinkled his nose at the antiseptic tang in the air before he pressed it against the side of Maxine’s head , wiping away the dried blood - near the temple - as she yowled like an injured cat, swatting at him. She had a good sized goose-egg that had grown there. 

“OUCH QUIT IT.”

“Don’t be such a baby, jesus, stop complainin’,” 

“That _HURTS._ ” 

“ I _KNOW_ it hurts, suck it up!” 

“You don’t have to be so rough!”

“I’m not being rough!”

“Only YOU would think that, god, _OW. It STINGS you_ ASShole.” 

He was being GENTLE he didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about. Elle came towards them, staring at them with wide eyes of almost alarm, watching what they were doing as she held a plate between two hands.

"You're, okay?" Elle asked.

"UGH no but I mean yes, he's just the worst ever." Maxine griped, pouting. 

Billy rolled his eyes so damn high into his skull. Then he blinked and narrowed his eyes at the curly haired pixie girl. Elle was holding out the plate like some sorta peace offering – and when Billy paused his ‘attack’ on Maxine, satisfied with his work, and looking at her, Elle got a small smile on her lips.

Like she’d figured out the puzzle.

Maxine accepted one like it was perfectly normal to offer Eggos at – Billy glanced at his digital wristwatch – three twenty three in the morning. She elbowed Billy pretty sharp in the ribs – he threw her an incredulous look at her river of bullshit before he reluctantly plucked a yellow disc of toasty dough from the plate and took a bite. 

That real small smile grew on Elle’s face as she ducked her head, before chewing away on her own Eggo and setting the empty plate on top of the TV set. She didn’t seem like a girl of many words, unlike a lot of ‘em that Billy knew that wouldn’t shut the fuck up, especially the giggly ones he saw at Maxine’s middle school. She was real quiet, he guessed. She hadn’t even asked what had happened. It wasn’t so bad.

She looked at Maxine like this was all perfectly normal and asked “So, sleep - over?” 

“Yeah I guess so. Just until my mom gets back. If it’s okay? Sorry it’s so late.” Maxine's face rippled with a frown, chewing sullenly on her bite of Eggo. 

“It’s o – k . What, about Billy?”

Billy stirred restlessly on the couch, arm still sprawled out over the back of it, gaze flicking from the girls to the television set, to the door and locks set for the Russian invasion. 

“When your pops gets back I’ll go.” 

“You can stay.” Did she ever say more than three words at a time?

“I’ve got places to be. Your dad gets here, I’m gone.”

Gilligan’s Island was on. Billy realized he’d eaten the entire Eggo pretty quick, in maybe three good bites. He hadn’t even been hungry, he’d thought. Guess he’d been wrong. Billy got up, gingerly, careful with his back as he went to the old sixties style fridge and ice box to grab some ice. He wrapped it up in the washcloth. Back on the couch, he shoved it at Maxine for her head – which she reluctantly held against the raised goose egg there, glowering at him.  
Elle sighed and sat down on the couch beside him, making a Billy sandwich in the middle of the girls, and he sighed at how ridiculous it was, lazily eying the television set. Maxine’s half eaten Eggo lay forgotten in her lap, and after a while, she slumped against Billy’s side, out like a light. A warm, consistent weight.

He ate her remaining Eggo, too, since she wasn’t gonna eat it in her sleep – and set the remaining makeshift ice pack on the coffee table next to his boots.  
The television set was reflected in Elle’s big dark eyes at his side as she watched it, and Billy felt himself sinking farther and farther into the couch even as his back screamed at him to lay on his belly and reverse position, but he was so tired and he had nowhere to properly lie down – especially with Maxine using him as some kinda body pillow.

He was trying not to think too much about what had happened that evening. It felt like a dangerous place to allow his mind to wander, to trust his own thoughts. He knew he was in a shit ton of trouble after tonight, fucking _rubbers_ and wallets and expensive cologne and his missing money, and he didn’t know what would come tomorrow. And it didn’t scare him. It made him angry – always angry.  
He breathed fury like he inhaled and exhaled oxygen, and he was never afraid. Couldn’t be. And that anger, it kept away the fear, forcing it to stay at bay, so he could keep his mind clear. So he could focus. So he could stay on his feet. He wondered why Harrington had had rubbers in his pocket. He wondered if he’d actually gotten laid at the party like he’d promised to – but Billy didn’t want to think about that, either. Couldn’t think about Harrington in bed with some random bitch, even as Billy’d been with Becky. The idea made him sick. Maybe it made him a hypocrite. He didn't know.

Instead, he tried to focus on being here, stuck between Maxine and one of her nerdy little friends, watching Gilligan’s Island. But after the show ended, Billy realized the channels were changing every so often, even as his attention drifted, lids drooping. He figured this set must have one of those fancy clickers, and the Elle girl had it on the other side of her. 

_Flick!_ The channel changed. Doublemint commercial. Elle was humming along with the jingle. _Flick!_ The channel changed. Cheers was on. _Flick!_ The channel changed. Static and snow. 

The hush of the static filled his ears, white noise, as his eyes drifted further down, the warm body heat on either side of him creating a comforting heat, like a glow in his mind, Maxine’s hair draped over his shoulder, and he was pretty sure he felt a wet spot there where she was drooling on the flannel shirt that wasn’t his. Billy’s head drooped forward and he jerked it back up, before his chin was lolling down again…and back up. _Down…down…down…_ before darkness stole at the corners of his vision. Static in his ears, a sweet undercurrent of white noise like a brook. With a solid and creeping darkness behind his eyelids, and a smarting back from the wrong end of a belt. 

 

Billy was drowsing, somewhere in the blurry haze between sleep and awake, the white static of the television buzzing away in his ears. He had to be dreaming, he supposed. But he seemed to have a very clear impression of Maxine’s friend, the curly haired girl, standing in front of him – her vivid outline brilliant against the pitch dark setting of his eyelids. He thought he heard the 'doublemint' song jingle somewhere distant, real soft. It was just her and the dark, like they were in the vacuum of outer space wiped clean of stars. Then she leaned in close, with that picking-apart-Billy-like-a-puzzle look, cocking her head like a very curious owl that had solved a riddle – like the Tootsie Pop ‘Mr. Owl’ that had finally gotten his answer after all these years.

She whispered one word: _‘monster.’_

Billy jerked in his sleep, his heart hammering, with that abrupt sensation as if he were suddenly falling. Huge blue eyes snapped open, peering around with a wild look, framed in thick, dark lashes. Disoriented in a strange space, he thought he heard melodic knocking. The television was still on a channel with no reception, showing nothing but snow, and the peculiar girl was not standing in front of him. Nor was she at his side. Maxine was also absent. Elle was gone, Maxine was gone, and at some point an old, moth bitten, patch work quilt had been thrown over his lap. The ice had melted into a puddle on the table, the washcloth in a sodden pile.

It had felt almost like a dream, or maybe like a memory – like he’d seen it before, not now, and was just now remembering it from the past. Didn’t feel real, but also somehow _too_ real. _Monster_ she’d said. Monster. Like Billy. Billy was the monster. Billy thought of his book buried safely in the trunk of Lenore, the one he’d checked out from the middle school right after his mom died and never gotten around to returning. Dog eared to death, the spine peeling. He thought of the monster in the pages. Hidden from his dad. He thought of how he didn’t have his car keys.

“Maxine.” Billy snapped drowsily, looking around. Like a question. Like a demand.

Still groggy and half asleep, Billy froze when he heard the locks sliding, grinding in place, and – someone big, and definitely male, was walking in the door when Billy turned his head. The first thing that struck Billy was that it was Neil – that his old man had somehow followed them here, broken in, and he was gonna murder Billy dead in the creepy ass cabin in the middle of the Hawkins woods and nobody would ever find the body.

Billy’s heart crawled into his throat, thrumming there like a hummingbird’s. He was frozen, glued to that sofa, couldn’t fucking move. The fine hairs rose at the back of Billy’s neck as it occurred to him that this fucker was bigger, though – with a frame much wider than Neil’s, with more girth around the waist, and a…vaguely familiar, wide brim hat. He had a big, heavy jacket slung over one arm.

Billy squinted in the darkness, the flicker of the television messing with his vision before the figure took a slow step forward, sighing, reaching up to the hat with a tired “Yeah yeah, I know I’m more than a little late kid, what are doing up this early? You should be in bed.”

But then he seemed to actually zero in on Billy, who was definitely not a thirteen-or-whatever year old girl, and the hat was forgotten as a large hand fled to favor the guy’s belt instead, his giant fucking frame going rigid. Billy stared, the arm along the back of the couch stiffening as the two men stared at each other in the white glow of nothing but the TV set. 

Billy finally got control back over his body, in one big rush, and he stood up so fast black spots swam in front of his eyes. He was dizzy for a second, and his back screamed at the sudden movement, especially after a long period of inactivity. Had to get on his feet.

“….Care to tell me what the hell you’re doing…on my couch…at four in the morning, Hargrove?” Chief Hopper asked real slow, his mustache twitching, and Billy realized that his hand wasn’t just resting on his belt. It was resting near his holster.

“YOUR couch?” Billy said real stupid, still half asleep. He was going to KILL Maxine. Elle’s dad…was…the CHIEF? “You’ve gotta be SHITTING me.” He choked. 

He was going to KILL MAXINE. KILL. HER. DEAD. 

_Jesus CHRIST I could kill you right now, Maxine…of all people’s houses….that little bitch takes me to the Chief of Police._ Was it on purpose? Probably. Was it malicious? Oh absolutely. He’d specifically said no cops, and where had she taken him? To his doorstep. She’d probably been right to get a safe distance away before Billy found out.

“I look like I’m _‘shitting you?’_ Yes, my couch.” The Chief said, exasperated, his hand completely falling away from his belt. But his fingers were slightly curled at the tips, as if they were ready to retrace their steps at a moment notice.

“What are you doing here?” The chief’s voice was cautious, his gaze flicking around the dark shadows and recesses of the cabin like he was expecting to see more strange people lurking in the dark. Stranger than Billy. 

Billy didn’t know what to say. His tired mind flew as he thought about the trip wire, the heavy locks on the door barring it up like Alcatraz, and the rural, removed location of the cabin. The heavy duty radio. It wasn’t just some paranoid nutjob in the woods, it belonged to a COP. In LA people tried to kill cops, especially in the worse areas downtown – no cop would wanna go there. It made sense to keep locks on your door in a place like that. Billy didn’t think Hawkins was much like LA, though, or Cali in general – he didn’t think the Chief exactly had death threats following him around – from who, that little old lady with hair like an owl’s nest? - but maybe it was a rule for cops that you could have your life threatened. Hell, he didn’t know. 

Billy and Chief Hopper didn’t have a great track record. Billy and the Chief had been playing a complicated game since the Hargroves had moved to town – a lot of that game was called ‘how fast can Billy go without getting a speeding ticket’ – outrunning the Chief’s lackey officers, blowing by stop signs and ignoring flashing yellow lights, and Billy won that game most of the time. All of the time. Or at least he had, until he finally got caught by Chief Hopper himself – the Blazer was a monster and it busted ass, could actually catch Lenore. The Chief’s moronic deputy and simpleton subordinates hadn’t stood a chance, though. Billy’d eaten a lot of shit after his dad found out, for that one speeding ticket. Neil definitely had not been pleased.

Billy’d also come to learn that Chief Hopper didn’t sip up Billy’s bullshit – not like most people did. If you gave the right smile, if you used the right tone, if you selected the right words to use, usually you could get by with just about anything with anybody. Not with his dad. But most people. But when Billy used his charming smile, Chief Hopper saw right through it. When Billy lined his vocal cords with velvet, the Chief could not hear it. When he spoke the words of a scholar - like he was Charles Dickens or some shit - they fell on deaf ears. 

Pissed Billy off most of the time – usually it was easy to sweet talk your way out of a situation, but not so with this guy. He saw too much, even when you didn’t realize he was looking. Heard a lot too, when you didn’t know he was listening. So Billy’d given up with the man – waste of time. Billy'd heard that the Chief used to be a 'big city' cop - he wondered if maybe that was why. To say the two butted heads could be an understatement.

Chief Hopper’s eyes lingered on him for a second, and his frown seemed to deepen in the shadow of his mustache. 

“And…is that my shirt?” The chief squinted and leaned over to fumble for the lamp switch on the end table, not taking his eyes offa Billy. 

Yellow light flared to life, joining the only other light source from the television screen. Well fuck Billy twice, this was the best night ever. In a cop’s house, wearing the guy’s flannels. Best. Night. Ever. Gonna. Kill. Maxine. 

Billy instantly eased up his shoulders as his initial shock wore off and he tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans, silver ring flashing. All cock sure bravado. He tried to exude ease as he leaned his weight back on one boot, grinning real sweet at the Chief of Police. Covering his shock a moment too late.

“Oh. Is it? Sorry for the confusion, _Chief._.” Billy flashed some teeth at the Chief with some charm thrown in for good luck, and a trace of sarcasm for good measure. “Didn’t realize this was your place.” More like ‘shit-hole.’ “My step-sister, Maxine? Little red-head?” Billy gestured at his own hair. “She was here a couple-a weeks back.” 

“Yeah, I know who your sister is.”  
The chief said with a roll of his eyes and a tired sigh, like it was real obvious that he knew who Maxine was. Also like he was getting himself ready for some kind of bullshit story. Like he saw it coming a mile away, and considering their history, he probably did. 

“Yeah well, her ma is out of town, and they had some sleepover tonight. I didn’t wanna leave ‘em alone, so I waited around. ”

“How thoughtful of you. Jane didn’t tell me about any sleepover.” 

“…Jane?” 

“El. You might know her as El.” 

“…Yeah. Figured it was short for Elizabeth, not…Jane.” Billy’s mouth made a snide curl with the words. “It was a last minute thing. She said her…’dad’ was late.”

The Chief’s scowl was of epic proportions now, his eyes darkening as he stared Billy down. You could melt plastic with that look, Billy figured. Chief Hopper took his wide-brim hat off to hang it on a hook, alongside his jacket, and pocketed his keys, like he thought Billy might snatch ‘em if he put them on a table. Maybe he was right. 

The guy was much taller than Billy, taller than Harrington, and sure as hell wider, and Billy didn’t much like men like that – the ones that towered above him, made him feel too small. 

Ones he wasn’t sure he could take in a fair fight. Made him nervous.  
It was a good thing Billy didn’t fight fair. 

Billy sidled to the side along the lip of the couch, ready to retreat to the door, but Chief Hopper was between him and his escape route. He'd lost any reservations about leaving Maxine here - she could make it on her own, and nothing was going to happen to her in the Chief of Police's house.

“Funny, I wonder why I was late?” Chief Hopper mused. “Might have had to do with a party I was breaking up for most of the morning. Pretty damn sure I saw you carrying Steve Harrington over your shoulder? I had to throw more than a few underage kids in the drunk tank and call their parents in.” He glanced at the big watch on his wrist, but Billy didn’t know what time it was. “So _yeah_. I’m late.” 

“Me? And Harrington?” Billy asked real innocent like, scandalized at the thought.

The Chief gave him a droll look. “Yeah, you and Harrington. Care to explain that to me? Last thing I remember, I had his folks saying they were wanting to press charges for you beating in his face, and he woudn’t let them.” 

Fuck. Billy hadn't known that. What the hell? That pretty face should probably be insured, Billy figured - no wonder his parents wanted to press charges. Neil would have taken the charges out of Billy's ass. What did that mean, Harrington hadn't let them?

“Funny how things work out.” Billy said.

“Yeah. Funny. I didn’t see your Camaro down the drive. And if you were at the party, how’d you bring Maxine here? At what…two, in the morning? Not a great time to start a sleepover.” 

Damn.

Billy clicked his teeth together as he glanced at the door behind Hopper’s giant back and wondered if the guy would ever move so he could leave. He was thinking about what to say. He’d heard Chief Hopper was basically a human lie detector, and Billy could tell when someone was wheedling around to catch you in a lie – because Billy could do the same thing. Billy didn’t like liars. Billy didn’t like lying.

Billy figured the Chief could smell the half-truth on the air. And Billy didn’t much feel like saying the whole truth – ‘cause like he told Maxine, you never told. Rule number one. So he just shrugged. Didn’t say nothin’. Hopper made a contemplative _‘hm’_ sound in the back of his throat. Billy knew he didn’t believe that shit.

“The Camaro’s at the house. I’m just gonna walk, and if Maxine wants to come back tomorrow night, I’ll be back for her.”

Chief Hopper laughed, a dry thing that didn’t sound amused. “Walk? Old Cherry Road’s a damn long walk from here. At least an hour.” 

“I’m a fast walker.” Billy grinned, showed too many teeth. It didn’t reach his eyes, and his voice fell flat. 

The Chief seemed to be contemplating something, nodding to himself a bit. “I could give you a lift, if you need it.” 

Like hell Billy wanted a ride back into that shit show. They’d just gotten out of it. 

“No.” He said too fast. “I’m good.” 

Billy felt distinctly uncomfortable, almost itchy like before, and fuck he wanted to get away from this house, and away from the cop, and go somewhere where he could just be alone. Maybe he could sleep somewhere and maybe it wasn’t as cold as before. The sun would be up soon.  
Goddamn he wished he had Lenore – he could at least sleep in the front seat, and reclined, sleeping in the drivers seat wasn’t so bad.  
Maybe the sun was already rising. Maybe if he gave it enough time before he took Maxine back and Susan was home again, most of Neil’s storm would have blown over. Doubtful, but a guy could dream.

“Right. Where are the girls, then?”

Billy just shrugged again. He tried to keep his mouth shut, really he did, but he was tired and his back ached and he blurted out "I _look_ like their keeper? You’re the one that’s ‘late’ or whatever. Shouldn’t you know where your own kid is? Elle’s room, I guess."

The Chief gave him a stern look at his tone that probably worked on little kids but Billy just tilted his head back and sniffed, swiping a thumb a forefinger over his nose, curls brushing the back of his neck. Eyes flat as baby blue marbles, unimpressed. That look didn’t work on him. Fuck this guy.

Chief Hopper strode long legged towards a door in the back, and knocked gently. “Jane?” Billy was already walking towards the front door as Hopper waited for the girls, but the Chief held up a hand. 

“Hold up a second, Hargrove. I have one more thing I need to ask you.” His tone left no room for argument. 

Billy’s jaw clenched so hard it ached, but he forced his legs to a standstill, so close to the door he could almost taste his freedom. His hands hung at his sides, curling and uncurling into fists as he tried to channel his anxiety and nerves, trying to funnel it away from anger at the situation that Maxine had landed him in, because the last thing he needed tonight was to get arrested. 

The Chief was ducking his head into the room, stepping in for a moment – Billy heard soft murmuring, but had no idea what was being said. It had Billy shifting on his boot heels as he stared the front door down, freedom within reach of his fingertips. Just a few more steps and he was gone.

A few minutes passed, making Billy more anxious by the second – _had Maxine opened her big trap, the little narc?_ \- then Chief Hopper came out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. Billy could feel eyes on his back and he wanted to fucking break something. Maxine better not’ve opened her big stupid-ass trap. Chief Hopper was suspiciously quiet for a moment. Billy glanced over his shoulder with a sharp look at the man, trying to keep a smile on his mouth and his voice light. Something tight and sharp was twisting more and more in his chest, a clamp going around and around, pressing in around his ribcage – pressing in _tight_ , made it hard to breathe. Made a pang around his heart.

“And what question was that?” He grit out, just wanting to leave. 

“The shirt?” Chief Hopper asked pointedly, and Billy cursed internally. But if he’d walked half across Hawkins without a shirt and survived earlier, he’d be fine now, too.

The tone of voice Hopper used made Billy feel like he knew, though. Like he just knew. Knew what he’d see if Billy took that shirt off. Billy turned around to face Hopper, his mouth cracking open wide in a big grin as he shrugged off the oversized flannel, balling it up in his fist and tossing it to Hopper like it was a b-ball. Ignoring the stinging protest of his muscles, that ache of his back from a leather belt, and the reminder of a half healed burn on his shoulder. Reminding him how fucked up he was – didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to think.

“Thanks for the threads, _Chief._ See you around.”

The smile was hurting his face it was so barbed, and his eyes burned, and the glass that always lay beneath his skin shifted, piercing his bones as he turned towards the door. Criss-crossed back exposed to the man who’d been chasing him half across Hawkins for months with a ticket book and a firm word. Billy had a hand on the handle. 

“Hargrove.” The Chief sighed like all of the air had been taken out of his lungs. “You can talk to me. You know that, right? You wanna tell me what happened?”

Billy’s jaw muscles rolled, hand curling around the door knob, twisting around it tight. Like he was going to strangle the metal, indent it with the marks of his fingers like he was The Hulk or some shit. He stayed silent. He glanced over his shoulder and Ninja Turtle band-aid at Chief Hopper, with a look of stone, ice chips for eyes, bare chested, bare backed, with furious welts exposed to the world. That look was his answer, joined by stony silence.

When he saw The Chief…Billy didn’t know. Didn’t know that look. He looked…angry. He looked real angry, his face pinched, bushy brows so low Billy almost couldn’t see his eyes. Looked like he was swallowing that anger down like a stone, reigning something in, and at the same time he looked almost – sad. His mouth dipped in a mournful bow. Angry and sad. Billy knew anger, knew it well, but he didn’t allow himself to be familiar with sadness. They were strangers, sadness and Billy, same with fear. He couldn’t afford those emotions – at least until they overwhelmed him, but he refused to acknowledge those moments. What did Chief Hopper have to be angry for? Sad for? The Chief sighed and ran a hand over his head, now bare of the hat, and his voice was rough when he spoke.

“Look. I mean it. You can talk to me. I can’t help you unless you _talk_ to me, so _TALK_ to me. “ The Chief gave him this look, lips pursed. “C’mon kid.”

Billy’s mind raced. You couldn’t trust anyone, and Billy wasn’t saying shit. He was thinking about his dad, and he was thinking about Maxine – he was thinking about how many times he’d wondered why it was always Billy that was fucking up and getting shit for it, even when it was Maxine’s fuck-ups, not his – and about how now that she was getting hers, too, all he wanted was for it to come back to him. ‘cause now that it was happening, he didn’t want her to get it too. He’d never wanted her to get it like he did, only wondered why she DIDN’T.

And maybe it would seem easy, to just open his mouth, to unhinge his jaw, and scream it in the Chief’s face. Spew it out of his chest like the liquid venom that was flooding his lungs, burning him from the inside out, making it hard to breathe. Getting bottled up more and more as time passed, getting close to the brim of his throat, choking him. Maybe releasing it would make his lungs empty enough to breathe oxygen again. 

As if the guy could really do something about it. _Right._

But Billy knew this song and dance, knew how this game worked, and it honestly wasn’t worth the energy. Wasn’t worth the words. Number one rule – you never told, or things got worse. And Billy didn’t _do_ hospitals. It would hurt Maxine more than help her to tell – Billy, too. So all Billy had was silence, because he was out of excuses.

The Chief shook his head a bit at Billy’s uncharacteristic silence, a heavy furrow in his brow and a frown digging into his scraggly mountain man beard, and turned towards what Billy assumed was his room. Billy did a really good imitation of a clam in the meantime.

“Yeah. Yeah, alright, kid. You don’t have to walk across town. It’s past four in the morning. You can crash on the couch, and take Maxine home tomorrow when you both get some sleep. I’ll get you a shirt that actually fits you.”

The muscles in Billy’s shoulderblades rolled with tension, and his back burned with the movement as he kept his hand on the handle. It was cool to the touch. He twisted it to leave, but it rattled on it’s hinges, not budging. He realized the locks were all done up again, he hadn’t even noticed, and he didn’t know when the chief had had the time to redo them. Billy shook it again, harder, eyes widening furiously, almost kicked the fucking thing. A bitter feeling crawling up his throat. _Locked in._

Fuck, Billy didn’t even know HOW to undo some of those locks. The bitter thing in his throat turned to a sudden wash of anxiety, burning his esophagus like bile and stomach acid. Locked in.

He ran both hands through his hair, making it stand on end at the top where it was all business in the front, and his smile fell, shattering like the glass he felt like as he twisted back to face Hopper. He felt trapped, locked in, an animal in a cage, just like at the Hargrove household. He knew the guy had seen his back, and belt marks were a lot harder to explain away than saying you got in a fist fight with someone when you only had the telltale bruises.

Belt marks said you were a disappointment. Belt marks said you needed firm _discipline_. Belt marks said you needed to be _straightened out._ Belt marks said you weren’t quite _right_. Belt marks said you _deserved_ it. Belt marks showed your _shame_. Belt marks _hurt._

Billy’s mouth snapped open to fight him on it, face twisting into a snarl as he rounded on the man. But the Chief cut him off, just held up a hand, sighing and rubbing a hand over his face, palm scraping over his beard. Tired.

“Don't start it, I'm not here for a fight - it's up to you if you wanna talk. But your little party with your friends kept me up all night and I’m done. Just go ahead and sleep on the couch, alright? Get some rest. ” 

“Nobody tells me what to do. You can’t make me do SHIT.” Billy snapped, vibrating with energy, wild, coming apart at the seams with no stitches to really hold him together where his back was surely splitting apart at the bruised welt lines. He didn’t like being locked in, an animal. He didn’t like being forced, and he didn’t like the feeling of losing the choice. “And I’m _leaving._ I don’t need your musty ass couch to sleep on. I’ve got places to be.”

“I’m not telling you what to do, but it’s a strong suggestion. The woods aren’t safe when it’s dark.” The Chief said in a firm tone. 

The fuck? It was Hawkins, Indiana. Billy didn’t think they even had _bears_ here. “Oh yeah? What’s gonna get me? A _raccoon?”_

The Chief just gave him a dark look that Billy couldn’t quite read.

Billy wanted to rail against anyone telling him what to do, to drive it home that it wasn't an OPTION trying to force him – only Billy wanted control over what he did, and when he did it, or if he allowed someone that control over him - and the locks on the door made him feel trapped into it. It wasn’t his decision. 

The grinding sound of metal on metal reached him and Billy slowly, slowly, slowly turned around to watch as the locks slid out of place, opening themselves. Almost as if they’d heard his thoughts. As they whirred, the hairs on Billy’s arms stood at attention as his exposed skin broke out in gooseflesh. He watched them open all on their own, some spinning in place, other deadbolts sliding free. As if they'd somehow... _heard_ him. 

The – the fuck? What the FUCK? Billy STARED, mouth slightly ajar.

“HEY! _RUUULES!_ ” The chief shouted at what might have been the back room before he turned back to Billy with a world weary look and a tight smile on his face. He looked like he’d eaten something sour and was trying to smile through it, voice was strained when he spoke again.  
“There. See? A suggestion. Nobody’s forcing you. They’re…automatic. So you wanna stay or what, kid?” 

Billy was still staring avidly at the locks, the gears working in his head as quickly as the locks had opened, bright blue eyes sharp. Inquisitive.

“I’m not a KID, old man.” He said, without pulling his eyes away from the magically unlocked door.

They didn’t look like they was rigged up on an automatic anything to him. He blinked at them, once, his brain spinning, and maybe, maybe he was just a lot more tired than he thought. Like he was seeing things.

“You decide. I’ll get you that shirt.” 

Hopper disappeared into another room, and reemerged with a white wife beater tank top that was smaller than the flannel. Like something the Chief might wear under his uniform. Maybe still a little big for Billy, but closer in size. He set it on the arm of the couch. 

“So it’s up to you – but I _suggest_ you try to rest. It's late. That’s what I plan to do. We’ll talk in the morning, and you can take your sister home.” The word ‘talk’ sounded like a promise. Made Billy nervous.

“Step-sister.” It was an automatic reply, on auto-pilot. Billy was still looking at the line of locks that marched up the side of the old, solid door.

“Yeah, sure, okay.” The Chief said.

Billy hovered by the door as Chief Hopper tossed some more blankets and a paisley pillow on the couch, muttering about it being cold out for this time of year in April. Yeah, no shit.

“Maybe I’ll see you in the morning. Get some sleep, Hargrove.” Then he retreated to what must be his room, where he’d gotten the shirt from. 

He left Billy alone in the main body of the cabin, flipping the TV set off as he went by. Leaving silence in his wake. When he was sure the Chief’s door was closed, and he was on his own, Billy walked tentatively towards the couch on carefully placed boots, glancing once more at the now-unlocked door. At freedom and the secure knowledge of being alone with the only person he could rely on – himself. Of avoiding some ‘talk’ tomorrow with the Chief of the fucking police.

But no…no he wanted to know how that happened – with the locks moving on their own, ‘cause automatic locks his _ass._ That sorta technology didn’t exist outside of sci-fi movies, or maybe government grade tech. And now he was thinking about last November, and he was thinking about the sketchy ass shit Maxine had gotten herself into, the trouble he’d KNOWN she’d gotten herself into. And he was thinking about how he’d been trying to uncover what her and her little friends had been up to with little to no success for MONTHS. This felt almost like the first step in the right direction of uncovering her little Sherlock Holmes mystery.

His mom had always said he had a ‘curious streak a mile wide.’ Maybe she was right.

‘cause those locks…this felt like… _that._ That night. Felt like _SOMETHING_. And Billy was gonna find out what it was. So yeah. Maybe he’d stick around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took me a million years to post. It's been a rough summer, and this chapter took me forever to write. I'm not entirely happy with my writing right now (like at all) if I'm being honest, but here we are. I hope this chapter is okay - thanks for your patience guys


	20. Just admit I'm right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 13th, 1985

Around noon the next day, Billy was up, and so was Elle. Maxine was not, and the Chief was absent. Billy was sitting at the table set up for two, the one with the vinyl tabletop, and he was drinking some coffee that had been sitting in the pot probably since Hopper had brewed it before leaving. He’d probably had to go to work, Billy assumed, and he was pretty thrilled at avoiding another awkward situation of Hopper trying to get him to talk while Billy did his damndest to do the opposite. 

He’d snatched a pack of Chief Hopper’s smokes from a cupboard in the kitchen while he’d been searching for a mug, and was currently sucking the nicotine out of one he’d lit with a wooden match. Meanwhile, he drank his old, overbrewed black coffee, watching Elle across the table from him. 

She just watched him right back, from over what looked like some sorta Eggo Sunday, with whipped cream and chocolate chips and shit. The kid really liked her Eggos, apparently. Maxine was still asleep in Elle’s room, the door slightly ajar – Billy could hear her soft snoring from here. He hadn’t opted to wake her up. Smoke furled from the corner of Billy’s mouth as he perched the cigarette between two fingers, leaning back in his shitty aluminum legged chair, making it squeal uneasily with his weight. 

They were silent for a while, aside from the sound of Billy slurping his coffee, and Elle digging into her pile of Eggo sugary goodness. Billy was sitting there in a borrowed wife beater and very little idea as to why he was here.

“So Jane, huh? Where’s the ‘Elle’ come from, then?” Billy finally said over the silence and fuckin' crickets.

“Eleven.” She said.

“Eleven what?” Billy raised a brow at her.

“Eleven. My friends call me – El – ‘for short.’” 

“…Your name is Eleven?” Who the hell named their kid Eleven?

She jutted out her wrist at him, exposing it upwards for him to see. Billy blinked at her and glanced down, flabbergasted as to why she was pushing her hand in his face – but then he got it. She had a little tattoo there – numbers. Kind of like what you’d see in books about the Holocaust, and the numbers that the Jewish prisoners in concentration camps would have tattooed into their inner forearm. Like a cataloguing number, instead of a name. 

Billy pulled the cigarette to his mouth, gripping it with his lips as he reached out with one hand to get a grip on her wrist to turn it better into the light from the nearby window – muted by the heavy curtains. Squinting for a better look. For some reason none of the curtains ever seemed to be open. Trying to get a good at her ink, double checking it was real, not some sharpie job. But it was definitely ink – looked old, too, like it had been there for a long time. Nothing fresh about it. 

Billy slowly raised his startled blue eyes back up to hers of darkest brown, releasing her wrist. She withdrew it, seeming unperturbed, unphased, and continued eating her eggo as if nothing had just happened. Like it was perfectly normal to have an ID number tattooed into her arm.

Billy drummed his fingers on the vinyl tabletop, taking another long drag of his pilfered cig as he mulled over her tattoo. 011. Eleven. 

“…What the hell is that about?” Billy finally asked, voice sharp, blowing a lungful of smoke into the air above them, creating a haze. Not into her face like he might’ve with Maxine.

“Me. Eleven.” 

“Well yeah, I get that, but why you got it tattooed on your arm?”

She shrugged. “Papa.” 

“The Chief?” What the fuck? 

Elle – Eleven – no, El – shook her head.  
“No. Papa was before. He was a bad man.”

Maxine had said that El was adopted – adopted by Chief Hopper, and somebody must have had the kid before that. Whoever her real parents were, Billy assumed. 

“What, your real dad?” Billy asked.

“Yes.” El’s brow furrowed in concentration as she took another big bite, talking around the white mush of whipped cream. “I think.” She added another generous helping of whipped cream from the can nozzle, making a flourish with it.

“Your papa – is a bad man?” She got that sad look about her again, where those large dark eyes glistened with it, and her tiny mouth tugged down in a petite frown. 

She touched her shoulder, as if to indicate Billy’s own, and then reached around to her back – over the shoulder. A reminder of Billy’s marks, the ones he ached with. Made it hard to stand or move. He definitely would not be able to bowl, that was for damn sure.

Billy’s face screwed up, his mouth twisting as he glanced away from her, burning through more of the paper of his cigarette as he held the smoke within his lungs, letting the heat fill him from within, smoldering in his chest cavity, before it leaked from his nostrils. He took a long swig of the coffee from the mug, finishing it off, down to the dregs.

“No. No, I don’t think so. Maybe. Shit, I dunno.” Billy said. He had no idea why he was telling her this – no idea why he was sitting here, aside from waiting for Maxine to wake up. Then they’d eventually have to go home and face the music.

That was such a difficult question. One he’d never been asked before, he supposed. Was his father a bad man? No. Maybe. Billy didn't know. He just wasn’t that sure. He knew his dad was a piece of shit – he could be manipulative, and he always got what he wanted, no matter the means. He ruined everything, and he always kept Billy under his thumb.

But in relation to Billy, he didn’t know – a bad man? Billy thought instead, that it was Billy that was the problem, not the other way around. Billy was always the problem. His dad beat the shit out of him because that was apparently what Billy deserved – trying to straighten him out, make a man out of him, teach him about respect and responsibility or what the fuck ever, to try and make him right in the head. 

But it never seemed to work. The more it happened, Billy didn’t know…the more it happened, somehow, the worse he seemed to feel. Not better. He knew he was wrong, and if he was better, Neil wouldn’t have to teach him how to be right. Everybody loved Neil. Thought he was such a great man, an upstanding pillar of society, a war hero that did the best by his family that he could, and who was Billy to say otherwise, really? Everyone else liked him. Maybe Billy was just wrong.

Billy had grown up with it, seen how Neil was with him, how Neil was with his ma - he didn't know of another way for anything to be.

Did being violent...make you bad? Billy didn't know...if it did...what did that make Billy?

And Billy could take it. Billy could always take it. Billy sighed and leaned forward, running a hand along the side of his face, palm smoothing over sandpaper rough stubble – thinking about last night, that shit show. Billy could take it, but Maxine couldn’t. He didn’t care what kind of fire Maxine had in her belly – Neil would beat it out of her. And he didn’t want that. Then she’d be just like Billy – with no fire. Fireless. 

But she had that fire that Steve Harrington had – the one he’d loved to see, the kind Billy wanted for himself. The one he craved.

And hell, it wasn’t like Neil was like this girls ‘papa’ or whatever – tattooing her arm like she was being tagged, as if she was some sorta chattel. Naming her after a number. In what world did that even happen? Could that actually be real? 

“I’m a monster. Too.” El said.

Billy’s eyes were drawn to her like with magnetism, immediate and intense, his nostrils flaring wide as the cigarette was forgotten between his fingers – the paper slowly burning to ash. 

“What did you say?” He breathed. 

The ash dropped on the thigh of his jeans. Billy cursed loudly, swiping at his jeans as the door creaked open and Maxine wandered out, rubbing her eyes. Dammit, he liked these jeans. They fit his ass just right.

“Hey, what’s goin’ on?” She mumbled, crabby and half asleep.

“Uh, nothin.’” Billy said, standing now. 

He was still wiping at the thigh of denim, but he was looking at El, brow deeply furrowed, mouth hedging down into a frown. 

Monster. Like in his dream – where she’d said ‘monster.’ What did that mean, she was a monster, too? Like Frankenstein’s monster? Then who was her Frankenstein? Billy stared at her wide eyed as if he’d gotten some kind of an electric shock. How could she have KNOWN that?

Elle watched him back with serious dark eyes for only a moment, before she turned around towards Maxine. “Good morning.” El said.

Billy was finally able to drag his gaze away to blink with annoyance at Maxine. Her hair was a huge rats nest, hanging around her in a ginger red tangle, and she was still wearing her Star Wars pajamas. She looked like shit. The goose egg had gone down a little, the bump not so bad, but the bruise was worse, and her cheek was mottled purple and blue. It made Billy’s insides twist with something sick, like guilt. It made it a lot harder to want to actually carry through with murdering her this morning. 

“Ugh.” Maxine replied and threw herself face down on the sofa with all of the drama she could muster, resting on her good cheek. “No it’s not. It’s not good. Billy my head hurts. Get me medicine.” 

“Get your damn self medicine, I look like your nanny?”

“Yes.”

“I fucking hate you.”

“Ditto.”

Billy went to the bathroom anyways, though, mostly to get away from the El girl. Trying to think. There was no way – no way – she could have known anything about that. She’d said she was a monster TOO. What the hell? 

And those numbers, and that creepy ‘papa’ bullshit – he’d wanted to stick around last night to figure out what the hell was going on. But this felt a little beyond what he’d ever expected, and it only seemed to be the tip of the iceberg. Billy took a fast piss, then grabbed a bottle of ibprofen out of the mirrored, rusting medicine cabinet.  
In the living room, he threw it at Maxine’s back. It bounced off of her and rolled into the sofa. She gave a muffled groan into the cushion and groped around for the bottle. Such a drama queen.

“Don’t say I never do anything for you.” Billy said as he went to refill his plain brown glazed mug with the last of the hours old coffee. 

Tasted like shit, and was overbrewed as hell, but he’d drink it. He was still exhausted, and had barely slept that morning.

“So you neglected to say that this was a goddamn cops house, Maxine. The CHIEF’S house.” He stood over her, holding his mug as he glared down at her, as he nudged her limp arm with his boot. It just swung there like a rag doll.

“Yeah well, you weren’t supposed to stay, so. Why did it matter?” 

“You should’ve told me, you little shit.” Billy growled at her.

“Shoulda coulda woulda.”

“Dammit, Maxine, it’s not a game.” 

Maxine got up and slumped towards the kitchen sink to fill up a tall glass of water and chug a couple of the ibprofen. Ignoring his snarl.

“Whatever. I just wanted to be with El, who cares who her dad is. And everything is a game to you.”

Billy shook his head. She just didn’t get it. She never would, maybe, even after last night. “That’s bullshit, Maxine.” It wasn’t a game. It was Billy’s life.

The afternoon dragged by as Billy put off going back to the house and facing his dad’s wrath – Maxine and El lazed around, especially Maxine, only a few days before she had to go back to school. She clearly wanted to get the most out of the remainder of her spring break. 

First, El brushed out Maxine’s snarled mess of hair, brushing it over and over and over while they watched cartoons, until it was a glimmering veil of fire and silk. Then she and El played Uno, with a chorus of ‘Blue! Yellow! Red! Reverse!’ then for a while, they worked on El’s Mage character sheet for D&D as Billy sat on the sofa and smoked through the rest of Chief Hopper’s pack of hidden smokes, watching TV on the old set. 

It was strange because he couldn’t find the clicker from last night, but he definitely remembered the channels changing. 

After a while, Maxine changed into a set of El's clothes - a pair of short, white jean overalls and an orange top, with white tennis and El asked Billy if he liked music. She stood by the crates of vinyl, and pulled out a record sleeve to show it off to him real proud-like, a shy smile on her face.

“I told her you liked music before.” Maxine said as she shuffled the UNO cards with a dubious look, the monster manual at her knee. It said ‘PROPERTY OF DUSTIN HENDERSON’ on the front with masking tape and sharpie.

Billy went over to examine the record El was admonishing, showing it off. 

“I know music.” She said, still so proud, her dark does eyes crinkling around the corners.

Billy plucked the record from her grasp to examine it with a skeptical look, a slow smile creeping up at one corner of his mouth.

“Supertramp, huh? Dunno if I’d uh, call that music.” Billy choked with a muted laugh. 

She acted like music was some new thing for her. Billy thought about the concentration-camp style tattoos on her inner arm. Fuck, maybe it was. He wanted to know the rest of that story.

With perfect care and precision, she put the old LP on the player, and placed the needle on the vinyl as it spun. “Yes, it is - see? Music.” Like he was an idiot that didn’t understand what a vinyl was.

Billy cringed internally at the music as it started to play – Jesus Christ, it figured this was the kind of music the Chief would have laying around. Not the good stuff. El showed him this funny little dance as the music played that was like a constipated shuffle, her hands in fists, and Billy fucking burst out laughing. And laughed and laughed. 

Supertramp and that dance, in high waisted blue jeans and an oversized, teal cotton shirt tucked in, barrettes in her curly mess of hair. It was the stupidest, most ridiculous thing ever and it was so damn funny, Billy loved it. 

Who the hell taught her to dance? 

Billy didn’t remember the last time he’d laughed - _really_ laughed, this hard.

Maxine stared at him like he’d lost his damn mind, mouth hanging open, before she slowly started up a smile and laughed too. She was sitting cross legged, hands around her ankles in the middle, and she rocked back on the floor as she laughed at Billy laughing, bruises and all. 

El’s smile widened enough to show off straight white teeth, in something smug like success at her obvious music knowledge, before she finally stopped her goofy little dance and settled down on the floor next to Maxine, the Supertramp record still on. 

Billy would introduce her to real music, sometime, if he was ever over here again. She needed some serious help, worse than Harrington even, with some old man like Chief Hopper teaching her about shitty music. 

"So what time are we going bowling?" Maxine asked.

\-------------------------------

Steve Harrington woke up alone. Like usual. And he made himself breakfast. Like usual. He had some frosted cornflakes with milk he had to make sure hadn’t expired, because he hated going grocery shopping, and he lay on the couch while he ate it, slurping his milk as he watched TV – there was a basketball game on because it was Saturday.

He went about his morning as he always did, and nothing was out of place. He hadn’t slept much, which was par for the course, but he’d gotten enough that he wasn’t dragging, either. 

Bless alcohol and being able to finally get some sleep. 

He didn’t remember a lot of last night, if he was being honest with himself, as he crunched away at his half soggy cornflakes, fighting the remainder of his hangover from getting so shitfaced. 

He remembered bits and pieces about Billy Hargrove – the last clear thing was that he remembered hearing him and Becky doing it upstairs at Nicky’s house, loud enough for the whole damn house to hear them if you listened carefully enough, even with the bass of the music vibrating in his belly. S

teve made a face at the television set as he glanced over at his mug of sweet, cream hued coffee in his #1 Dad Mug. He also maybe remembered something about getting his hand up a girl’s shirt, but he didn’t remember who it was. 

Shit it was bad. He hoped he hadn’t gone much further than that – he didn’t think he had. He’d woken up with morning wood, like he had for months of not getting laid, so he didn’t think so. He’d probably just been talking big to Billy, because when it came down to it, he knew he didn’t want what he’d had before.  
Mindlessly being with any girl and not remembering anything in the morning – it wasn’t something he wanted to go back to.  
He was well and truly fucked. 

“Goddammit.” Steve muttered into his bowl of cereal. 

He just, he just remembered, the most clearly – and this made him feel a bit hot around his neck when he thought about it – he just remembered hearing Becky, and he remembered being shit faced, and feeling something like panic, and thinking, thinking, thinking too much. He thought he’d have expected to maybe be, somehow, jealous of Billy fucking Becky – like that he was jealous of Billy being with a girl Steve had been with before. 

And Steve was there to get laid too, right? Right. 

But…Steve swallowed the lump in his throat.  
He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to examine it too closely.  
Maybe he was remembering it incorrectly – the haze of alcohol could certainly do that to him. Maybe he really was a lightweight, like he thought he remembered Billy saying at some point. Did he used to be a lightweight? No. He used to be the Keg King. Now his tolerance had gone down, he supposed – he wasn’t exactly cracking open kegs every weekend anymore, or the lucky Thursday night. 

Steve closed his eyes and swallowed as he tried to remember more carefully last night, and what had happened, before he’d started really drowning himself in the white rum. 

He thought, uh. He thought maybe…Steve shied away from the thought – he thought he, no, no the word ‘jealous’ wasn’t right – but he thought, maybe, he’d wondered – what it was like to cause Becky to cry out like…like _that_. What it was like with…Billy. 

What the hell was that thought? 

Steve scratched his neck absently, coughing, and shook his head. As if to chase the thought away.

Ate more cornflakes. 

Yeah it was too early in the damn morning to be thinking about this – he glanced at his watch – oh, it was like…two. Okay, too early in the afternoon. He should start getting ready soon – after a while, he was gonna start rounding up the kids, they were gonna hit up the arcade for a while, and then head over to the Brightside Bowling Alley on the other side of town.

Billy had said he’d be driving Maxine there, so he wasn’t worried about them. They’d probably meet them there. Steve finished up his sugar and cream sweet coffee, which had cooled down to something of a lukewarm temperature. 

He showered fast, standing under the hot water too long to help chase away the lingering cobwebs of his hangover, head tilted back, adams apple jutting out as the hot water pounded over his head – eyes closed. Even more time was spent on his hair, perfecting the curl of his bangs and the coif of his pompadour, the Farah Fawcette spray getting it just right when it was damp. An even more embarrassing amount of time was spent in front of the mirror, trying to decide between a plain blue polo and a striped white and grey polo with a green puff vest. 

He was thinking about going to the bowling alley, but it wasn’t just with the kids – it was also with Billy, he thought – because he did remember that. He’d invited Billy to go tonight. Because it was his birthday. And Steve just didn’t wanna look…stupid. That same heat crawled up his throat as he carefully did not look at a reason why. 

He just did. That’s all. 

He matched it with his favorite pair of Chinos, before he was radioing the kids, including El that he was on his way and heading down the stairs, Ray-Bans perched on top of his head. 

Then the bell rang. Steve frowned and glanced at his watch – the television set was still on in the living room below him, the sounds of Fragglerock on the cable echoing up. The TV was always on, needing the background noise.

He didn’t know who that would be – none of the kids would come here, they knew he was coming to pick them up to take them to the arcade and the alley. He'd just TOLD them he was heading out. He had no other plans today. If it was Dustin on his bike, he swore…Steve took the stairs down two at a time as the bell rang again. And again. Unlike most of the morning, this was not the usual.

“Yeah yeah, I’m coming! Jesus.” Steve yelled as he finally reached the front door, his Nike’s beside it. 

When he pulled it open, it was a stranger. He looked a little familiar, as if Steve had seen him in passing a few times before, but Steve couldn’t place where from.  
Steve’s first instinct looking at the guy was that he was a mormon going door to door, but he didn’t see any pamphlet. 

He was a scrawny older man, but with a thickness about him that belied some underlying muscle, with gaunt cheeks, a no-bullshit, perfectly trimmed mustache, and cold, hard eyes. His haircut was also military-grade, with perfectly smooth cheeks, as if by a straight razor. Maybe around his dad’s age.

Steve blinked at him, one hand braced on the door frame, the other on the door as he held it open just enough to frame his body. 

“Uh yeah, can I help you with something?” Steve asked when the guy didn’t say anything. Just sort of stared at him as Steve hung onto the edge of the door, raising one eyebrow expectantly.

Mr guy looked down at something in his hand, squinting, then looked back up at Steve, his mustache twitching a little like his nose itched or something. His whole FACE sorta twitched, really. Steve glanced down at the guy’s hands, realized he was holding a little card. An ID card. The guy held it up, along with a very familiar leather wallet. Like he was comparing Steve’s face with the photo.

“Are you Steven Harrington?” He asked.

Steve reached around and automatically patted the back pocket of his chinos, realizing he didn’t have his wallet – he didn’t remember the last time he’d seen it. How did this dude have his wallet? 

“Oh shit, yeah, I am.” Steve said, wide eyed as he stared at his wallet. He must have lost it last night at the party.

“I believe you lost this.” 

“Oh hey man, thanks.” 

Steve reached out as if to take it, but the man withdrew it for a moment, just out of Steve’s reach - still studying the ID with a somewhat sour expression.  
Steve could only really see it in the tightness around his eyes, and the lines surrounding his mouth, though. He just didn’t look…happy. Steve’s forehead wrinkled as he glanced to the side, and back to the man.

“Thanks for bringing it back, but can I, have it?”

What did the guy want? A reward or something?

“Are your parents home, young man?” The guy asked. Steve stared.

“…No. They’re not home right now, but my dad is on his way back right now.” Steve said slowly. 

It wasn’t true. His parents were somewhere in Italy, he thought Milan. They weren’t anywhere close. But this guy was giving him the serious creeps. Steve edged the door a little more closed.

“Look it was great of you to bring it back, but can you just give me my wallet back, please?” Steve was starting to get a little annoyed, but he’d been raised to be polite, and damn if he was gonna try. It was always fucking annoying when anyone asked if 'your parents were home.' 

But his dad always said that once being polite failed, you might have to use money. Steve didn’t want to pay this guy to give him back his own shit, though. And why did he look so FAMILIAR?

“I can wait. I’d like to speak to your father.” The man said.

Steve’s head rocked back on his neck a little in surprise. Who the fuck did this guy think he was? “…Who are you? What do you wanna talk to my dad for?”

“I’m Billy Hargrove’s father. And I know what you’ve been doing with my son, and I plan on discussing it with your parents. They should be aware.”

Steve’s mind spun it’s wheels, not going anywhere. He just stared at the guy – Billy’s dad – with a generally blank expression. Doing? Doing what with Billy? He was barely FRIENDS with the guy, if you could even call it that. 

Then, Steve’s face lit slowly grew with recognition. Shit, that’s why this guy looked so familiar. He’d seen him once or twice at the grocery store with Maxine and her mom, and once when he’d picked up Maxine. The guy just had an easily forgettable face – like one of those people that blended in with the crowd.

“What do you mean, what I’m doing with your son? Aware of WHAT?” Steve frowned at his tone.

The guy – Mr. Hargrove, apparently – went up one of the concrete steps, a step up closer to Steve. Steve automatically took a step back, hand still on the door, gripping the wood hard. He didn’t know why – this was Billy’s dad, right? What was gonna happen? But there was something particularly aggressive about that step – and something wasn’t right about the guy’s tone of voice, or the look he was giving Steve. 

Something wasn’t…right, at all. 

His face was slowly turning into something like a thundercloud, eyes still looking really dead and flat, but snapping with something electric. This was Billy’s dad?

Mr. Hargrove reached into his pocket, and withdrew a few condoms, still in their wrappers – the rubbers Steve had shoved into his pocket for safe keeping last night, just in case. The guy placed them with the wallet, and Steve’s drivers license, and held them all up in one hand. Pinched tight between his fingers and thumb, like a clamp. His knuckles were a little white. 

“My son had this in his pocket, with these condoms." Mr. Hargrove said, voice tight. "There’s a reason we left California to come here, and it wasn’t to find more of you _goddamn_ queers. This is a good town, with good people, you hear me?”

Steve’s eyes slowly widened, and he felt a flush crawl up his neck, stain his cheeks at the insinuation. Wait, wait, he thought – he thought – wait, WHAT?

“Wait, I – I think you’ve got it wrong, Mr. Hargrove. I’m not doing _shit_ with your son, he – “ Steve started, but Mr. Hargrove cut him off.

“William isn’t going to make the same mistakes as he made in California, do you understand me, Steven? You stay away from my son, or there will be consequences.” 

The same mistakes – he – with – WHAT? Steve’s brain was stumbling, stuttering, trying to catch up on what Mr. Hargrove was saying without outright saying the words. The same mistakes…queers…he…Steve blinked rapidly, his grip tightening on the door frame, still flushed.  
Did he…he thought…wait, he thought Steve and Billy were – they were – and Billy was? But no. Billy liked girls. Steve KNEW Billy liked girls. Billy FUCKED girls. He’d been with most of the school’s female population, or so he’d heard – well, it wasn’t just rumor, Steve had heard it for himself last night. He wasn’t with other dudes, he wouldn’t BE with Steve – he wouldn’t. Right?

“What do you think we’re doing…Mr. Hargrove?” Steve asked really slowly. Needing complete clarification. 

“Whatever you _homos_ do. I don’t want to know the disgusting details. But William is not going to be involved, and when he gets home, he’ll understand that, too.” He growled, face growing angrier, looking more and more like Billy when he was pissed- right before his fist was in Steve’s face. 

Mr. Hargrove took another step up. Got closer. His other hand was curling into a fist. Warning bells rang in Steve’s head.

“We’re not having a repeat of California, and I do not plan on uprooting my family again for William’s and your mistakes. So you keep your diseases to yourself, and when your father arrives, I’ll be letting him know _exactly_ what you’ve been up to so he can take the appropriate actions. I refuse to allow you to enable William with your _lifestyle._ ” 

A REPEAT of California? This…this had happened in California? Was Billy with…Steve’s mind was slowly catching up. Slowly. Mr. Hargrove was saying…Billy was gay. That he’d been with a guy in California? And that’s why they left? How could that be true? He’d heard him with Becky…

Steve didn’t even know any gay people in Hawkins – literally no one. At least no one that was open and out about it, and it wasn’t something that anyone ever talked about. Ever. It was a topic that was carefully skirted around, especially by adults. On occasion you may know someone that knew someone that had a cousin that was gay or something, but it was very hush hush. This wasn’t California – that was one thing Mr. Hargrove was right about.

“What the hell is your problem? You’ve seriously got it wrong, man – we aren’t – “ 

Mr. Hargrove took the last step up, like he was going to come in the goddamn door, snarling “Just admit I’m _RIGHT -_ ” up in Steve's face.

Steve felt something like cold water flush down from the top of his head over his skull, reached out, snatched the wallet bundle from the guy’s hand, and promptly slammed the door in his face – locking it immediately with the dead bolt. Breathing hard like he’d just run a marathon. 

The guy was hammering on the door, hard enough to rattle it on the hinges. Steve ran a hand through his hair, almost knocking his sunglasses loose as he staggered back from the door, making it stand on end. His first instinct was to run to the white couch, to pull the bat from underneath – but this wasn’t a demogorgon, this wasn’t some creature, this was a man. This was a human man. 

“YOU OPEN THIS DOOR YOUNG MAN! I CAN WAIT. I’M NOT DONE WITH YOU.” He shouted, muffled by the reinforced wood. Still pounding away. 

Steve was breathing too hard, couldn’t catch his breath, heart running too fast in his chest, at a gallop. This wasn’t a demogorgon. It wasn’t. This wasn’t a monster – not the paranormal kind, anyways.

“THANKS FOR THE WALLET, ASSHOLE.” Steve shouted back through the door. The door jumped on it’s hinges, like it had been kicked. Hard.

FUCK this guy. Instead of getting his bat, Steve got the walkie from under the sofa. He put it on the right channel, pressed the PTT button. “Hop? It’s Steve. Over.”

\--------------------

“Let me make this perfectly clear for you. Crystal clear.” Hopper growled, arms folded across his chest, chin canted down, face shadowed by his wide brim hat. “This is my town. You understand? And this shit does not HAPPEN in my town. I’m aware of what’s going on with you and your son, Neil. And that. Does not happen. In my town. People don’t beat their kids in my town, and they don't fuck around on other people's property.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t DO anything to my children, and I have every right to speak with this boy's parents. Either way, you can’t control the way I discipline my own children, Jim.” Neil Hargrove sneered. “You can’t legally do anything – I’d like to see you try. You don’t OWN this town. Are you saying William or Maxine said something to you?”

“No.” Hopper grit out, as if annoyed by the fact. “They didn’t. So let’s consider this _unofficial_ business. I’m letting you know, man to man, that if I see another mark on either of those kids, I’m coming after your ass. You understand me, _Neil_? And you don’t want that. I promise you don’t. You don’t harm another hair on their goddamn heads, and you leave Steve Harrington alone – you stay the hell off of his property or I’ll nail you for trespassing. I don’t want you harassing anyone in this town, period. If you do, you’re gone.” 

Hopper towered above Neil, raised up to his full height and girth, arms still folded as he glowered down at the other, slighter man. Gun in the holster. The other man seemed to cower a bit in his shadow, but his face was also molten with a sucked in fury, the kind that made your face twitchy when you were trying to control your facial muscles into submission. Not to show it. Pale with the effort.

“I didn’t protect and serve this country to be treated like this,” He spat in Hopper’s face. “You can’t DO this.”

“ _Watch. Me_.” Hopper growled so low Steve almost missed it.

Hopper glanced up, as if just noticing Steve was standing there, off to the side - like he had front row seats. 

“Harrington, dammit, I told you to wait inside. Get your ass out of here. This isn’t some sideshow. The kids are waiting for you - I radioed them that you'll have two extras. I expect someone back by _eleven_ at the latest. Understood?”

“Yep. You’ve got it, Hop.” 

Steve threw a disgusted look at the piece of shit that was Billy Hargrove’s dad, glaring daggers at the abusive dickbag as he went down the walk – the Harrington house was already locked up behind him.

"Hey, he can't go - " Mr. Hargrove started.

"Yeah _fuck_ you, man. You don't _deserve_ kids." Steve flipped the guy off.

"Harrington!" Hopper barked. "I'll handle it."

Steve was in the Beamer just as a red faced Neil was shouting something about _‘FAGS_ ’ at Hopper, but Steve was spinning out of his long driveway, and heading out of Loch Nora. He left Hopper and Neil Hargrove out there on his lawn, where the neighbors were too far away to really hear anything. 

He knew Hopper could handle it, and honestly, it was probably for the best. Because he was right. Steve was already running late to get the kids, and they were relying on him – it was Billy’s birthday, and according to Hopper, Billy was at Hopper’s house (which he’d told him out of earshot of Neil Hargrove.) Another person Steve was picking up, along with Max. 

And after this entire revelation, well…Steve wanted to make it a _good_ birthday. Maybe Billy really _needed_ one – more than Steve had known. 

And arguing with Neil Hargrove would not accomplish that. He hoped Hopper beat the shit out of him for good measure, though.

Once Steve he was in the car, once he was driving, with his drivers license safe in this back pocket, and out of Neil Hargrove’s hands, he tried to think. Tried to wrap his mind around everything that had just happened. It was a lot to take in, a lot to process, and honestly Steve thought it might take him days to digest all of it. 

But there were two primary things that stood out to him – one was, apparently, Billy Hargrove was maybe gay. Or at least, he’d supposedly been with a man (men?) before – but Steve didn’t know how much of what Neil Hargrove said he could trust, either.

The second was, Neil Hargrove beat Billy. Steve wasn’t sure he was actually supposed to have heard that part – wasn’t sure he was supposed to know. Probably wasn’t, considering Hopper had sent him in the house but Steve had snuck back out. 

But now, he thought of all of the times – all of the times when Billy had grinned away bruises as another fight he’d won, when no one seemed to know the other recipient. Or when Billy had been on his living room floor, and Steve had seen his stomach and rib cage mottled in old wounds, purple and yellowing with age. He thought of how Billy had ‘fallen down the stairs’ weeks back, with a dislocated shoulder, stitches in his head, and a fucked up foot - and how it had never quite set right with Steve. How there had seemed to be more to it, how it had fallen flat, like a lie. 

He hadn’t fallen down the stairs. Neil Hargrove had done that. All of it. Something hot burned in Steve’s chest, like a fire he couldn’t breathe out. So Steve sucked in a deep breath through his nose, trying to cool the flames, wanting to rest his forehead on his steering wheel, but he was driving so he had to make do with smacking a palm against the wheel of the BMW instead.

“Dammit…” Steve should have seen it. Should have known. He didn’t know what he could have done about it, but…he should have known. 

Steve and his father didn’t have the best relationship – if you could really call it a relationship at all, but he’d never hit him, nor had his mother. The only real fights he’d had was with Jonathan and, of course, Billy himself. And Steve supposed it was common, for parents to smack their kids around or whatever – definitely not unheard of. 

But Hopper was right – in Hawkins, it didn’t happen. And maybe that had to do with the Chief of Police, Steve didn’t know. Steve chewed on his lip. 

He was thinking about what his mom had told him once, about when his mom and dad and Hopper used to go to school together with Joyce and the whole gang. 

His mom _loved_ gossip. 

She’d told him that Hopper’s dad was pretty shit, that he drank a lot, and they lived in a trailer. And then, that Hopper had gone to live with his grandpa in the old cabin at a pretty young age, back before his grandpa died – then his grandpa left the cabin to him, but Hopper hadn’t stayed after he turned eighteen. 

Moved out to the _‘big city’_ , Chicago, instead, which had been this huge scandal. 

Steve had never thought about it that much before, but he wondered…Hopper had been really angry over Billy. He wondered…he wondered how much Hopper’s dad might have been like Neil Hargrove, if at all. Because it had seemed _personal,_ the way Hopper was talking to Neil. And that didn’t happen in Hawkins, at least not that anyone knew or talked about. Most of the parents were pretty good. Hopper was a good parent, a good dad – Steve knew that, Steve could see that. He’d do anything for El, and he’d have done anything for his other little girl, Sarah, from what Steve had heard. Steve thought that Hopper might do anything for anyone, especially any kid. He was especially protective over children, even grown up ones – Steve knew that, too. Neil Hargrove didn’t know what he had gotten himself into. 

Steve made a loop around Hawkins, collecting kids, until half of them were crammed into his backseat – entirely illegally, really, but he had the whole gaggle of them all scrunched together, laughing, fighting with each other, and pushing for more space. “Move over!” “Oh my god how are you this heavy?!” “I can’t BREATHE!” “Guys, maybe we can find a better order – “ “TETRIS!” and that’s how it was when he pulled up the drive to Hopper’s cabin, while Steve blared music to try and drown them out. He had to park a ways away, down the drive. He left the radio running, blaring Play for Today by The Cure. 

“You shit heads behave and I’ll be right back, okay? I’ll be back with El, Billy and Max.”

“I’ll come with you!” Mike half yelled after he heard the word ‘El,’ then seemed to actually process the rest of it. “Wait, BILLY?”

“Yes Billy.” Steve snapped as he leaned against the open drivers side window, his elbow on the window frame as he frowned back at them. “You little assholes better be nice, alright? Some shit went down and he’s coming bowling with us. It’s his birthday. I’m talking to you, Mike. Be nice. And if - if something seems...different. Don't say anything, okay?”

Mike scoffed and made a huge stink face. “Did you learn NOTHING? And he's NEVER NICE!” 

"Wait, different how?" Lucas asked.

"I dunno. Just different. Zip it. And be _nice._ "

“Yeah, Mike, be NICE.” Dustin laughed. 

Mike shoved him, "HEY!" and along with Lucas they all fell three into a bickering, yelling, shoving mess in the backseat, completely suffocating Will as Steve sighed, slid his glasses down, and started up the path to the cabin, hands in his pockets. “I said behave, jesus…” 

When Steve finally reached the house, still able to hear the music from the car, he gave the special melody of a knock at the door. Heard the locks spinning until the door swung open. He was pretty sure she wasn’t actually supposed to do that if Billy was in there – use her powers – right?

And then Billy was on the other side of the door, watching the door swing open on it’s own with an eyebrow raised and a calculating gaze that he lifted up to Steve. In a white wife beater, his medallion glinting against the white, thumbs hooked in his belt loops.

“Well if it ain’t Steve fuckin’ Harrington. Nice _vest._ ” Billy smirked.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s me, keep your shirt on.” Steve stared at him, his ears tinged a bit red. “You ready for me to kick your ass at bowling?”

“Like hell I'm _bowling._ But I’ll watch you _fall_ on your ass, sure.” Billy smirked as he strode by Steve, strutting down the drive, spike earring swinging, to be followed by Maxine and El like ducklings. El was carrying what looked like a baking pan covered in a layer of tin foil. 

Steve's breath caught in his chest when he saw Maxine, who ducked her head down to cover half her face with her hair. He swallowed down the anger, swallowed it down, let it ball up in his gut. It was something like fury that that creep had even TOUCHED one of Steve's kids - and her face was like that. He'd never seen Max hurt before. And how many times - how many times had he seen Billy messed up? How many times?

So that was why they were at Hopper's. Steve wondered what had happened last night - he'd only gotten the bare bones of it from Hopper. Was Billy okay? Was he hurt, too? Steve saw that his hand was messed up as they walked, and it didn't seem like Billy to ever turn down an opportunity to be competitive about ANYTHING.

If Steve saw Neil again...fuck, he didn't even know. He didn't know. He didn't know that he had gone after Maxine, too. Both of them. He reminded himself of his mission. A good birthday. Make it fun. Maybe take their mind off of things - which could be just what they needed. Maybe that was the best thing he could possibly do for them right now. So he didn't ask, he didn't say anything, and he tried to swallow his aching anger for both of their sakes, because he knew it would only do more harm than good. He tried to remember that Hopper was taking care of it - or at least, Steve hoped he was. Hopper was one man you knew you could rely on, no matter what. 

So he couldn’t help but follow – the door swinging shut behind them like magic. Steve almost missed Billy glancing over his shoulder at the door, a dark look on his face - but not quite.


	21. That doesn't even make sense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 13th, 1985

“It looks like a clown car, this is ridiculous. I wasn’t planning on having this many people.” Steve sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he examined the car, Billy on the other side – next to the passenger door. 

Billy gave him a droll look with those sharp blue eyes. “Well we weren’t exactly planning on going with you, either. Look, if we’re too much _trouble_ we can get out of your perfect hair, Harrington.” 

“No no I didn’t mean it like that, it’s fine, I – I want you to go, okay? It’s just there’s not enough space, or seat belts, and the cops – “ 

“Don’t worry so much, Harrington. You worry so fuckin’ much. It’s fine. The dipshit cops in this town ain’t gonna notice, they’re dumb as rocks – in case you hadn’t noticed?”

“Well yeah but if you have the chief’s daughter in your car it’s kind of a different story – “ 

“Just shut up and drive, man. Unless you want me to.” 

Steve’s face crinkled in a look as he glanced at Billy, cocking his hands on his hips, resting most of his weight on one foot, the other leg splayed out. 

“I don’t need you to drive. Then we really will get pulled over.”

“I bet this pretty little thing moves.” 

“I don’t want to find out.” 

“Of course you don’t. But I do.”

“Well too bad, ugh, fine. Just get in. The sooner we get there the sooner it’s over.” 

“That’s what I thought. Move your ass then.”

Mike tripped over himself trying to get the back door open to hold it open for El to get in, like some kind of a little gentleman – it was almost cute. Sugar sweet cute. But he was half hanging onto the door, and then stared at Max as she went to follow after El – staring at the side of her face, and a nasty spot on her forehead. 

Steve swallowed as he went to duck into the drivers side, pulling the car door closed as he leaned over the middle console. Billy grabbed Max by the scruff of her shirt and tugged her away from getting in the back.

“What the hell?” She frowned, glowering up at him. 

Mike seemed to take a moment to recover, and threw a scandalized look up at Billy, then to Steve, before giving some other kind of huge look to the other boys in the back of the Beamer – like he was trying to communicate something with his mind. Steve had a bad feeling about it. 

“What you planning on doing, sitting on Sinclair’s lap? Over my dead body. Get your ass in the front, Maxine.” 

“Uh, no! I wasn’t going to!” Max said, her cheeks flaming red, an equally flaming indication that she’d been planning on doing just that.

“Sure.” Billy said, clearly unimpressed.

“Oh my god you’re so _embarrassing._ ” Max hissed, before she crawled into the front instead. 

Billy crammed himself in beside her, shoving her half into the console before he slammed the door shut – Billy was wide enough it didn’t leave much room, so she was half up on the console, cocking her knee, one dirty converse sole on the dashboard and kicking at her brother with the other. 

“Shoes off the dash, Max.” Steve sighed, long suffering. 

“Shut up, Steve! Where do you expect me to put them?!” Max huffed.

Billy shoved her leg away from him as she kicked at him. “Quit it, don’t be a little shitstain.”

“Then don’t embarrass me in front of my friends, asswipe! You aren’t even supposed to be around them, remember?”

They didn’t seem to notice the entire car was deathly quiet aside from their bickering. Mike had gotten in the back of the car, with Eleven perched properly in his lap like some sort of a little bird, and Dustin sprawled out over Lucas and Will’s laps, his face pressed up against the window as he side eyed them, his feet in Eleven’s lap – her hands resting gently over his calves as she stared somberly into the front. 

"What, so El can sit in Mike's lap? Talk about unfair." Max griped.

"She ain't my s- step-sister. Is she."

Billy turned to look out the window, clearly uninterested.

"You're the worst." 

“So uh. I dunno if you guys can even sort of buckle up, but if you can, do it. Otherwise, like, buddy system or something. Don’t let Dustin stick his head out the window again. I don’t care about the wind velocity, Dustin.” Steve ordered them in the back as he started the car up. 

“That was actually pretty important, Steve.”

“You looked like a golden retriever.” Will smiled at him where Dustin was smooshed up against him.

“Thank you.” Dustin smiled back at him with his little chipmunk smile.

The BMW seemed to groan with the extra weight it wasn’t accustomed to. Steve only heard two belts click into place, along with his own. He gulped a deep breath, chest heaving, swiping a hand back through his hair – sunglasses balanced on his nose. 

“This is so not safe. Oh god, oh my god I’m so going to jail for this.”

Mike was leaning over, holding his hand up as he whispered fervently into Lucas’ ear, his eyes flicking up towards the back of Max’s head, and then towards Billy, who in turn leaned over and started whispering at Dustin, who made some kind of a noise in the back of his throat. 

Steve glanced up at all of their big eyes in the rearview mirror, which he could barely use around Max’s head of bright red hair – Lucas was glaring at him with dark eyes, his mouth tight, jaw clenched. Oh god this wasn’t going to end well, Steve thought. 

He’d been so fucking drunk when he’d invited Billy last night – he hadn’t really given it a second thought. He didn’t regret it. But in what world had he expected Billy to actually _accept?_ Not this one, that was for damn sure. Steve turned on the radio, rolling up the volume knob up to help drown out the kids in the back, who were still whispering heatedly together aside from Eleven. She remained silent and contemplative.

When Steve glanced in the rearview mirror again, she met him eye for eye in the reflective glass, a steady look on her face – it was unnerving – she maybe creeped him out a little. He didn’t like the idea that she could like…read your mind or whatever. Steve’s gaze flicked back to the gravel drive as he threw the car into reverse to start backing up, twisting around to get a better look over his shoulder, Max’s hair sticking to his cheek, grabbing at the back of Billy’s seat for better leverage as he backed all the way down the drive, one hand on the steering wheel. Billy had rolled down the window to loll one arm out of it, slouching in the seat.

Max drew up one leg to perch her chin on top of her knee as Steve twisted the car around into drive, and started towards The Palace Arcade over on Main. 

When they finally reached The Palace, everyone scrambled out of the car – reminding Steve again of the car clown thing, scrubbing his face with his knuckles in frustration before he threw the car door closed. He left his Ray-Ban's in the glove box.

Billy slapped him heartily on the back as Steve looped around the front of the BMW, engine still ticing as it started to cool down. 

“See? Nothin’ to worry that pretty little head about.” Billy smirked as they followed after the kids towards the arcade. 

Max and Lucas had paused outside of the arcade doors, in the shade from the dying sun, talking together, and Lucas had reached out to hold her hand between them. But as he caught sight of Billy and Steve approaching – Billy’s eyes locked on them like a flashing red warning sign - he abruptly dropped her smaller hand, wiping his hands on the sides of his jeans – like he was nervous or something, with sweaty palms. 

“No! Tell me! What are you _looking at_ , stalker?” Max said, as if she was repeating the question. “Go ahead!” 

“Nothing, okay? Nothing! Just, let’s just go play, okay?” 

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s rude to stare, Sinclair?” Billy asked, lip curling as they approached. 

“Uh yeah, she did! But I – I can look at my girlfriend’s face anytime I want to! I’m not staring!” 

“I can handle this, Billy! Just leave my friends alone, alright?”

“Then why the hell ‘m I here? Your nerds are crawling around everywhere.” Billy scowled down at her, arms crossed tight over his chest, the white wife beater spread tight over his pectorals with the movement. Necklace medallion glimmering like gold. “Look I’ve warned you about this shit, Maxine.” 

Billy shoved his way past them as he went in through the door of the arcade, prompting Max to throw a huge glare in Lucas’ direction. 

“I’m just _worried_ , Max – “ Lucas started. “I’m sorry, okay?”

“Save it, stalker.” Max rubbed at her nose and followed after her step-brother, trying to slam the door behind her like Billy had, but she couldn’t quite manage it. It swung closed too slowly. 

It left Steve and Lucas standing awkwardly out beneath the awning, the light up signs in front of The Palace dead in the slowly dying afternoon light – approaching dinner time. Steve scratched his neck and glanced down at Lucas, who was glowering up at him in a Skeletor t-shirt and cargo pants. His eyes were tight around the edges, and his hands were curled into fists.

“Okay. You said not to say anything, but you know what, that’s pretty difficult when my GIRLFRIEND looks like THAT. Just. Just tell me one thing, Steve. One thing.” 

Steve sighed and glanced up at the sky, rolling his eyes up like a prayer – in the distance, some spring clouds were slowly starting to tumble in, and the lowering sun was giving the sky a hazy look, starting to spill muted oranges around the edges, spurred on by the bank of clouds moving in. 

“Okay yeah, what’s that?” Steve sighed.

“Did Billy do that?”

Steve’s eyes snapped down at that, locking in on Lucas as his own lashes fanned out wide, lower lip dropping a bit with surprise.

“He – what? To Max? No! He didn’t. Don’t be, I mean, c’mon, he wouldn’t do that – “ Steve started, holding out a hand in a gesture for understanding.

“Oh really? What makes you so sure of that, huh? Maybe Mike was right. I mean, I thought that he was taking it a little far – over the whole Billy thing – I mean, I’m not SCARED of him or whatever, but last fall, that was really messed up man. I mean he totally destroyed your face like that, and he – “

Lucas fell silent, his eyes dropping down to the cement as he chewed on his lip a little, as if in thought. He was pulling at a strap of his cargo pants, turning to look once back at the door, as if to ensure they had no eavesdroppers. 

“Well you know. You know what happened. You stopped him. And you’ve SEEN how he is with Max. His hand is all busted up, he’s obviously been hitting SOMETHING! SomeONE! What makes you think he wouldn’t do the same thing to her, huh? Maybe you’re just still in this la-la land where you apparently think you’re gonna be friends or something. I mean, I mean, this isn’t the Upside Down, okay? This is _reality_ , man! That’s not going to happen! What’s this whole thing? Inviting him to _bowl_ with us? That doesn’t even make sense! He doesn’t even know Eleven!”

Steve’s mind spun, ticking away, as he looked up at the door too – the door to the arcade, with the rest of the kids, Max, and Billy too – all just a doors length away. Probably already at the Dig Dug machine, minus Billy, whatever he was doing.

Steve knew, he knew because of what Hopper had said, right? Hopper had said that he knew what was going on with Neil and his kids, with Billy and Max, that he was – was beating them. Or at least, he had last night. 

But Steve had never seen Max hurt before – just Billy. But he knew that Hopper wouldn’t lie, and Hop – Hop knew EVERYTHING that went on in this town, it seemed, and sure he was only human. He could make mistakes, or think something that wasn’t true, but Steve…Steve trusted him. But he also knew that he wasn’t supposed to have overheard what he did. 

He wasn’t supposed to know about Neil and what had happened the other night, whatever DID happen, but he knew that Billy wouldn’t want him to know. He’d covered up his injuries before, it wasn’t like he was open about the fact – and it would seem that he probably didn’t want anyone to know. Neil had asked Hopper if either of his kids had talked to Hopper – actually told him what had happened, and Hop had said no. 

Neither of them were talking. Steve had been told he had a big mouth before. He’d been told that a lot. Once it got going, he tended to run it, and he knew that. But he liked to think that he could be pretty good at keeping a secret, especially when it was important - he hadn’t breathed a word about the Upside Down to anyone, after all, and there was so much shit he had on Tommy – so much shit that he could bury him socially if he wanted, really – but he hadn’t. And Hopper knew what was going on. 

Steve didn’t think that Billy, or Max, needed Steve spilling their secrets to all of the other kids, because once one of them knew, they all knew. He knew Max would tell them if she wanted them to know, and well, if he was going to bring it up to Billy – maybe it would be in private or something. Not standing in front of the arcade. 

He also knew that those kids would take things to extremes if they knew – they’d totally blow up Neil Hargrove’s house with him in it, and he trusted that Hopper would be able to take care of the situation without explosives. Maybe. 

Steve HAD to trust that. Had to believe that, or really, he knew that he, too, would take things to extremes. He was pretty good at that. Taking things to extremes, explosives or not, jumping to conclusions, making things into a bigger deal than they were sometimes. Reading way into things. But Hopper had said he’d handle it. That had to be enough, or at least – Steve hoped. 

Because he didn’t know what he would do if he was face to face with Neil Hargrove again, now that he knew. He’d been hurting Billy, and hurting Max – one of STEVE’S kids, and that just wouldn’t fuckin’ fly. You didn’t touch those kids. They were part of Steve’s circle, and therefore, they fell underneath his protection (Jesus, what was he, the godfather?) – and Billy….Billy could be in that circle too. If he wanted to be. 

Steve would have never thought Billy would need protecting, or really any kind of help, not from anyone. He was built like a fucking tank and definitely fought like one, and he seemed to self sufficient and confident, like nothing could ever phase him, like nothing was ever wrong, but…but maybe he needed someone watching out for him, too. Steve had just…never thought about it before. Never realized.

But now here Lucas was, thinking – thinking that Billy had done it. And Steve didn’t think that was true, was like, like 110% sure that it had been Neil Hargrove – the guy was clearly a total psycho, after what had happened on Steve’s front porch. And god, that – that entire jar of worms Steve didn’t want to touch with a ten foot pole. Not yet. Becaue he knew that once he started thinking about it, he wouldn’t be able to stop. 

He was carefully avoiding that whole, uh, topic within the solace of his mind, pushing it to the back, pushing it back, back, back – because if it wasn’t true, if it wasn’t, and it _probably_ wasn’t, Steve’d _heard_ him with Becky – it would be a lot of thinking gone to waste. And hell, if he ever brought that up to Billy? And it wasn’t true? Even if it WAS true? Billy would hate Steve even more than he already did, he was sure. Then Billy really would beat him up again.

He just, he couldn’t – couldn’t think about that right now. He pushed it farther back in his mind, into the dark cracks and crevasses in shadowy corners, to the drawers that he kept tightly closed for things he did not want to take out and examine – painful memories mostly, or thoughts he couldn’t entirely process. 

“Hellooo? Steve? Earth to Steve!” Lucas made a snapping gesture up in Steve’s face, making a frown crawl over it.

“Hey, get your hand out of my face.”

“I said, what makes you so sure, huh? Mike is right. I don’t care if it’s his birthday or whatever. He’s dangerous. This is just more proof of that, and I can’t believe – can’t believe that you know about this, and then you, you what, you invite him to _bowl -_ “ 

“Lucas! Jesus, okay, I get it, alright? I know what it looks like. But I don’t think he did that to Max, alright? No, no I’m sure of it. It was somebody else. Is that what you guys were whispering about back there?”

“Of course it was! And if it wasn’t that asshole, then who was it? Huh? If it was Troy again she would tell me - ”

“No, it wasn’t Troy, it was – just ugh, it’s being taken care of, alright? Please just trust me on this. If it had been Billy, we wouldn’t be here, alright? And hey, I thought Troy was leaving you guys alone?”

“ _Trust_ you? I mean Dustin might, and I had thought that I – I dunno, Steve. You always think like the best of people or whatever, and sometimes it just makes you blind. You’re so _stupid_ sometimes. Just forget it. I’ll keep my mouth shut for now, and I'll talk to the guys, but this isn't over.” Lucas snapped, glancing up at Steve from beneath hooded eyes, and then turned to go into the arcade. 

Steve sighed and turned to slump against the wall of the arcade for a second, the soles of his Nike’s catching against the worn out, gritty cement. He covered his face with one hand, silver keys jingling from the other. The word ‘stupid’ stinging more than usual.

“Shit.” He said to himself. “Shit, shit shit!” 

Some people that were walking by gave him a funny look as he drug his hand over his face, making his features run long as he made a sour look at them. He frowned and looked at his feet.

Hell, it just wasn’t his story to tell, right? Steve didn’t want people running their mouths off about him, either. And the ‘authorities’ or whatever Hopper was had been ‘notified’ apparently, or like – however Hop had found out about it, without either Billy or Max actually telling him about it….Hopper just seemed to always know everything. 

God, it just, made him feel like bullshit – the kids all thinking that Steve was just letting Billy hang out with them, thinking he had been the one to leave those marks on Max’s face, and that what? That Steve just lay down on the ground, and let the guy walk all over him? 

Steve stuck out his tongue a little in disgust, glancing into the distance at nothing and at everything, eyes distant. 

In what world would Steve do that? If any of the kids were in danger, if anyone was laying a finger on them, if Billy were to be pushing them around or – or shoving Lucas again, or even hitting Max – fuck, Steve would put a STOP to it. He hated to admit it, but they were like, they were _important_ to him or whatever. He wouldn’t LET that happen. He wasn’t STUPID. 

Why would they think he would? He would protect them. He would. He’d done it before. And hell, if it came down to Steve needing to protect not only Max, but Billy too…from their own dad? Or step-dad? Steve would do that, too. 

Steve knew, he knew, that he was right to have invited Billy. Knew it in his bones. He just couldn’t say why. Not in words.

Steve went into the arcade.

 

Yazoo’s _Situation_ was playing over the loud speakers, and The Palace Arcade was lit up from the inside out, like always. The windows were all blacked out for daytime use, giving the impression of walking into a cave at first – dark and almost ominous, but as his eyes adjusted, they were met with the bright zing and flash of screens. Rows of arcade game consoles, and a wall of nothing but pinball machines, all _dinging!_ and chiming. Vivid tubed neon lights licked up the walls, scrawling out electric words like ‘soda’ and ’quarter a game.’ 

Towards the back, there was a counter with a glass case full of tiny trinkets and toys – things like cheap, shitty erasers or creepy finger puppets you could win when you got tickets from a game, like the Skeeball games or the Pop-A-Shot basketball hoops that Steve normally favored when he got stuck here with the kids. 

There was also a counter that was just for food – the most important food group for kids; candy. Or at least, most of it. Some of it was like chips and pop and stuff like that, but there were actually jars of candy, stuffed into another glass display case where you could pick your candy from – rows of chocolate candy bars, rainbow jars of gumballs, Fun Dip packs, packs of candy cigarettes, bags of Pop Rocks and boxes of Bottle Caps. 

All of the kids were in a gaggle around the Galaga game, shouting at eachother, with Will at the helm – as he wielded the buttons and control stick like a master. El was standing back a bit, up on her toes, holding hands with Mike and watching the screen with piqued interest. 

Keith was lurking around nearby alongside his framed ‘employee of the month’ sign on the wall. 

“Oooh hey man, long time no see.” Keith smiled at him lazily from his position by the wall as Steve walked over, hands shoved in the pockets of his chinos as his eyes roved around the arcade for Billy.

Steve paused in his search for the very notable form of Billy Hargrove to instead focus on Keith, who had a slow smile spreading over his mouth, pimples in the corners. Sandy hair a little greasy, crumbs on his Palace Arcade shirt. He had a can of pringles, and slowly raised one to his lips to crunch down on it – the sound mostly drowned out by the music, and the _‘ding!-zap!-vvvvt!’_ of the sea of arcade games, nearly all of them manned by kids from town as spring break wound down to an end. Trying to get the most out of it.

“Oh uh, hey Keith.” Steve said, distracted, as he resumed his search for Billy.

“So how’s the single life without the Princess, huh? I uh, I don’t wanna break it to you, but she and I might of totally went out on a date. You know. After you guys broke up. Full disclosure.” 

Steve’s brow knit in a brief furrow as he snorted, glancing at Keith, still distracted at where Billy had gone off to. 

“No you didn’t.” Steve said, annoyance creeping into his voice.

“Totally did. Mikey-boy owed me a favor, y’know. She didn’t tell you? She almost chose me over Jonathan, so I’ve heard.” He crunched another pringle down. Smeared his greasy hand over his shirt with a wide smile.

Steve rolled his eyes to the ceiling and prayed for peace.

“Yeah, okay, Keith. Sure. Whatever. Look, did you see - ?” 

A hand clapped down on his shoulder, making him jump, heart hammering as he stumbled forward, fingers twitching to wrap around the ghost of a bat, shaking his head as he jerked around to look at his attacker – but it was just a slightly bemused looking Billy, staring back at him. 

“Jumpy, Harrington?” Billy asked, a small smile etching over the corner of his mouth. Steve knew this wasn’t the first time Steve had gotten jumpy around him. 

“Yeah, I guess. Hey, I was just looking for you – “ 

Billy shrugged. “Well, y’ found me.” He glanced up sharply at Keith still hovering nearby, watching them with his mouth slightly agape, a pringle halfway to his mouth. “The hell you want, _Keith_?” Billy sneered.

“Nothing! Nothing. I’ll just be. Over here.”  
Keith's voice broke as he spun on the heel of his dirty converse, and wandered back over to the wall with his framed ‘employee of the month’ print out. Stuffing the pringle into his mouth, hugging the can. As he got close to the wall, he seemed to perk up, glancing over at some girls by the Ms. Pacman machine.  
“Hey! Hey, it’s outta order – she’ll just eat your quarters, not ghosts, hey - can't you read the sign?“ and scurried off to help them, presumably. 

Max took his place, coming over to glare up at Billy. 

“Billy, I don’t have any money, ‘cause we didn’t go back by the house and – “ 

“What, you think I have some? You know the answer to that question.” Billy growled at her, voice sharp, squinting down at her in something like anger, his jaw tightening. “So what the hell you want me to do about it, Maxine?”

“Well, I – oh. No, I…” Max’s mouth went a little slack around the edges, and her cheeks stained pink, visible even in the semi-darkness of the arcade, lit up by flashes of bright screens, the lime-green neon making her look a little sick, green around the gills. 

“Hey, it’s cool, I brought extra, ‘cause those shitheads never leave me alone for quarters.”

Steve smiled, and reached into his back pocket, fishing out his leather wallet – the one made of Tuscan leather, the one his dad got for him in Florence. He was glad it wasn’t lost – his dad would have killed him if he’d lost it.  
He gulped, realizing that there was still a condom stuck to the back of it like a foil circle – he snatched it from the back and tucked it inside of the wallet, out of sight, sliding it open to reach into the bill pocket – and finding it empty. 

Steve squinted at it for a moment, sure he’d had money there – but. But. Realization dawned on his face. He knew where it must have gone. Who took it. Steve swallowed, throat clicking as he blinked away the surprise, and reached into the hidden pocket in the back where he kept larger bills. 

He handed Max a bank crisp twenty, and nodded towards the change machine. “Go nuts, Max. Just share, okay?” 

When he looked up, he realized that Billy was watching him with this intense look – this hawk sharp look, those baby blues glued to Steve’s hands, and the wallet balanced between those long fingers. 

Billy’s throat muscles were working, and his jawbone looked tight enough to snap in half if he flexed it. But otherwise, his face looked perfectly calm, like the calm before a storm. Almost blank. Steve tore his eyes away from that strained, marked stare, tucking his wallet closed and slipping it into his back pocket where it belonged. 

He had a feeling he knew why Billy looked at the wallet like that – because apparently, Billy had been the one to have it last…before. Well.

“That’s awesome, thanks Steve! _Wicked._ I will!”  
Max cried, and ran over to the change machine to feed the bill in.

The chime of twenty dollars worth of quarters spilling into the metal mouth spout was like a waterfall of metal on metal. She had to cup her hands underneath it to catch all of them like it was some kind of gold rush, making Steve smile and snort as he glanced back towards the kids.

Max was stuffing quarters into the pouch pocket of her overalls like some kind of a kangaroo as she hurried over to the boys and El, jangling as she went. She immediately got to work teaching El how to play Pong, gesturing wildly with her hands. 

Billy sniffed, glancing down, thumbs snagged into his belt loops as he ticed his head to the side. Curls brushing his neck. “We don’t need your fucking charity. Neither of us. Don’t need your money.” 

“I mean it’s not a big deal. I brought it for all of them, not just Max – you usually give her some quarters, right? Usually she says she gets quarters from you…I don’t mind sharing, too.” Steve smiled down at him, lashes lowering a bit.

Billy’s mouth twitched as his eyes snagged on that smile, before he shrugged, the fire that had been building in his belly seeming to die away. He was studying the arcade games spread out before them, standing side by side with Steve, not looking at him.

“It’s part of the allowance from her ma. It’s up to me to make sure she don’t blow it at once. She’s a greedy little shit. Don’t give her more.”

“Yeah, alright. Alright. So…do you wanna play a game or something?”

“Let me make this perfectly clear, Harrington. I don’t wanna be here. But I told Maxine that I’d take her, and I didn’t have my wheels, so. That’s it. I’m not here to fuck around with you and play shitty arcade games.”

Steve had to hide a smile away as he wondered about that – he knew that there were a million other places for Billy to be – that he hadn’t had to come with them, that he could have even waited outside, not left the car like he normally never left his own – waiting for Max outside, an arm draped outside the window his Camaro, aviator’s hiding half of his face away from the world as he half drowsed, blaring Metallica and flicking ash from his Marlboro. This was the first time Steve’d actually seen Billy in the arcade itself - he was sort of starting to learn that you had to listen around the words that Billy said sometimes, and read in between the lines.

“Yeah well. I’m glad you came – the bowling alley is pretty fun here, and the guys really like it. It’s only a few blocks away, and we can walk from here. I’m uh, I’m pretty bad at it though. But they wanted to teach El how to bowl, because she saw it in a movie.”

“What movie?”

“Madison Avenue. Apparently she likes those old timey kinda movies.”

“Madison Ave? Huh.” Billy’s brows jumped in amusement, in recognition, tilting his head towards Steve to be heard as they started to wander between the isles of arcade games.

Steve raised a single brow back, smiling a little as he studied Billy from the corner of one eye. Noting the way how Billy was moving a little stiffly at his side, as if he was favoring his neck, or back, or something. Walking almost gingerly. “I haven’t seen it. Have you?” 

Billy stiffened at the question, as if he’d been caught out, and a sour look crossed his face as he straightened his neck, strong chin canted up, lip rising. “Susan watches that black ‘n white shit all the time.”

“Oh. Well that’s cool – my mom likes those movies, too. I dunno, anyways, El liked it I guess and wanted to give it a try.”

“She’s not my mom.” 

“Yeah…I know she’s not. Look, I know you ‘don’t wanna be here’ or whatever, but we could play a few games. Just to waste time until they’re done, if you want.”

Billy shrugged, muttering a muted ‘Whatever. I don’t care.’

Steve automatically headed towards the Pop-A-Shot after getting more change from the machine, Billy trailing him, hands stuffed in the pockets of his tight, dark wash jeans.

Once they were back at the Pop-A-Shot, which was a little removed from the rest of the games, tucked in a corner – considering ‘sports’ weren't a huge attractant to the majority of the kids that showed up here, Steve started feeding in quarters. 

One quarter per five orange striped basket balls. Mini-sized, of course. 

Max came running up, a candy cigarette hanging from her mouth, and shoved an armful of candies at Billy. “Please hold this!” 

“The fuck, no, Maxine – hey – shitbird – dammit.”

But she was already gone, dashing off back into the masses of spring-break high kids, flashing lights and button mashing madness. Nothing but a memory of red hair, leaving a frazzled looking Billy with an armful of candy.

“We can just eat all of it.” Steve grinned at him. Billy made a ‘well why the hell not?’ face.

Steve started tossing baskets, getting almost all of them, enjoying the swish of the net, but missed three. Not great odds. Usually he thought he did better, but Billy stood nearby at his back, studying him imperatively, after dropping the armful of candy onto a nearby table with chairs – the one where Steve had draped his puffer vest. Billy's eyes on him made him nervous, made him fuck up more, the scrutiny of it - the desire to be better actually seemed to make him worse.

Billy started chewing on candy cigarettes, tucking the open box of Lucky Lights into the arm of his tank top, next to a green bandaid.

“Keep your elbows in when you shoot. Gives you more control over the ball, lets you aim better. You look like a goddamn bird with your elbows out like that. You gonna fly away or what?” 

“Oh my god, it’s just a game.” Steve muttered, only a little annoyed, glancing back at Billy. He reached over to pluck a candy cigarette from Billy’s Lucky Lights box to chew on it, smiling at Billy around the solid sugar. 

Billy’s eyes followed the path of the fake cigarette all the way to Steve’s lips. Watching. Always watching him. Something in the back of Steve’s mind rattled like a reminder.’

“Yeah well, it’s a game on the court too. All life is a game. You’ve got to win to stay in it.” Billy purred. “Might as well get some more practice in – you need it, pretty boy.” The other boy winked at him with those long, long lashes, rolling his pink tongue lazily around the pretend butt of his sugar sweet cig. 

Steve looked up at Billy with a big look, dark eyes contemplative, at that statement. It sounded like a quote from something, but Steve didn't know what. And it was really kind of interesting, because, because Steve actually compared a lot of things in his life to games, basketball and otherwise. He hadn't realized there was someone else that might do the same thing. It made something warm light up within his chest. Made him smile with it. 

Steve tossed a coin at him, which Billy caught flawlessly midair.  
“You wanna put your money where your mouth is, Hargrove? Show me how it’s done?” 

Billy seemed to pause a minute, rolling his shoulders a bit, as if testing them, eying the ball game machine for a second – measuring it by inches – before he nodded. Couldn’t resist the challenge, Steve supposed. Fed the machine, and let the balls roll out like thunder. 

“Watch the master, Harrington.” Billy licked the air at Steve, like he was _tasting_ it, eyes bright as he rolled one of the mini basketballs up into his hands.

Bouncing it between his damaged palms to get used to the feel of the pimpled rubber beneath his palms, to get a grip. His hands looked like he’d been handling glass or something, nicked up, with the knuckles of his left hand busted up. Steve couldn’t help but wonder what had happened. Wonder if he was alright.

Now that Max had currency, the kids had all moved onto Dig Dug, and they were all shouting at her, shouting solutions, shouting advice, shouting in indignation as her score got higher and higher. Steve could hear them from here. Specifically Dustin’s dismayed ‘son of a _bitch!_ ’ 

Billy’s form seemed stiffer than normal on the court – as if he was having some trouble raising his arms at first, but he had this sort of determination about him as he took ball after ball – lifting them, elbows tucked, wrists flicking, lifting up on his boot toes a bit to watch each ball sink into the shitty nylon net, scarcely touching the rim. 

On the last ball, he turned towards Steve, his fading golden tan seeming even paler, a pained tightness around his eyes that Steve couldn’t place, joined by a familiar, easy, sharp toothed grin on his face. He tossed the ball over his shoulder to sink it yet again – without even _looking_. 

“Hey – are you alright?” Steve started. “You look – “

“’m fine.” Billy cut him off. “And see? Gotta keep those elbows in. Works like a charm.” Waggling his tongue at Steve. 

Steve sighed, feeling himself sulk a little – Jesus H. Christ, it was just like on the court, with Billy showing off like a total ball-hog, and being happy to rub Steve’s face in it every chance he got. Billy grabbed another quarter from Steve’s hand and fed the machine – the balls rolled right back on out. Once upon a time, Steve had been the best player on the team. But with Billy there, showdogging, hassling him, always on his goddamn case he just…he just couldn’t concentrate. Ever. This had been his worst season ever.

Billy nodded at Steve, then jerked his chin towards the machine. Steve eyed the thing, not sure if he entirely appreciated or liked it changing from a game into something more serious – but that was always how Billy was, it seemed. It was always go hard or go home, and there seemed to be no such thing as ‘just a game’ – it was still a game, but he took it so seriously. Had to win. And Steve...Steve told himself _he_ didn't do that. He didn't.

And it was always so _weird_ when Billy started randomly spouting off advice in between shoving Steve to the court or riding his back like he was grinding into him, and, and it was still happening. They weren’t even in the gym. Why would Billy even want to help him? Usually he was a lot happier to embarrass him, and watch him fail, watch him fall. Steve scowled and glanced away. 

“Quit being a sulky lil’ bitch. Just try again. I have no idea how you managed to be this King Steve for so long when your game sucked so bad.”

“Hey, it doesn’t suck, alright?? I was always really good at basketball, but since you showed up, it’s just – I don’t know, it’s just different.”

“Can’t handle a little friendly competition? That it? It get your panties all up in a twist?”

“Can’t handle _you._ ” Steve frowned.

“Just take the shot, ‘n I’ll let you handle me all you want.”

Steve sighed at the jab meant to roil him, and rolled a ball up into his hands, a flush crawling up his neck. He felt the ball all firm between his palms like Billy had, and poised himself to shoot. But Billy was suddenly behind him – just like on the court, always at his back, the strong line of his body always there, hot breath in his ear, those sturdy hips at his ass, but at least here, at least now, there was some distance between them. 

Billy Hargrove reached up to swat Steve’s elbows in. 

Reaching out to touch Steve’s arms, at the jut of his elbows, as if to push them in as an example – a rough touch, like a playful shove. But he was still close enough that Steve could smell him, the salt sweet sweat of him, and the lingering scent of Aquanet, faded cologne, and what might have been old whiskey. And that Billy smell, that musky, earthy smell like summer; warm asphalt, and coconuts. The sweet sugar of his devoured candy smoke, still saccharin on his tongue, scenting his heated breath in Steve’s ear.

“You’re not a fuckin’ bird, Harrington. Tuck them in.” He growled low.

Just a playful shove, like in the locker room. On the court. In the hallway. 

But all the same, the thing in the back of Steve’s mind rattled again. Steve’s breath picked up, kept his elbows tucked in.

It was one of the drawers Steve had closed tight, in the back of his brain. Full to the brim of something he was not thinking about. Steve’s elbows tingled where Billy’s hands had briefly lingered, his back hyper sensitive with shared body heat, however brief, his heart rate picking up within his chest. What the hell was wrong with him?

Steve sank almost every ball. Four out of five. Not as cleanly as Billy, and not one over his shoulder without looking, but he nearly got each one. 

The machine spit out a row of tickets to join the ones from Billy’s game. As Billy snatched the tickets, tearing them off, Steve immediately drew away, making a beeline towards the table loaded with the kid’s candy goldmine. 

“See?” 

“Yeah, yeah, elbows in – got it.” He cleared his throat. “Thanks for the advice, but I really don’t need it.” Steve smiled, a tight, nervous laugh forcing it’s way out of his chest. His cheeks felt warm. 

“Like hell you don’t. You probably won’t use it anyway – like usual.”

“What? Not ‘drawing enough of a charge’ for you?”

“I don't give a shit what you do, I just don’t want to lose to North Western this month. It’s the last game of the year.”

“I’m not going to make us lose. We won last year, didn't we?” 

"Well maybe if you plant your goddamn feet for once, and keep those elbows in, we hold a prayer."

Steve grunted, twisting his hands in front of him, settled down at the table at the seat with his vest draped over the back, knee bouncing with something like nerves. He had a belly full of secrets he shouldn't know, and they were making him over think. he knew that. That's all it was. He was over thinking this shit, like he always did. Billy pulled out one of the other seats, spinning it around so it was backwards, and sat down to straddle it, the line of his hips pressing in close to the back as he leaned over it to pick through the candy pile of Max’s.

Billy was giving him a strange, calculating look as he selectively pulled some candy aside, like he was trying to figure something out, but Steve didn’t know what.  
A frown tugging at his mouth, only pulling at one corner, the familiar line forming between his brows when he was confused about something. It was the same look he’d worn when Steve had lied to him about where Max was. 

“You alright, pretty boy?” Billy asked slowly. 

“Huh? Oh yeah. I’m fine.” Steve said, distracted. His words sounded hollow, only mimicking Billy’s ‘fine’ from earlier. 

Billy grunted like he didn’t believe him.

Steve’s elbows could still feel Billy’s touch, and the drawer was rattling in the back of his mind, and it was loud, and he wanted to open it. Wanted to examine the contents more closely. But he couldn’t. Not here, and not now. Not tonight.  
It was too much for tonight. It might not even be true. Probably wasn’t true, he thought. Probably. No no, don’t think about it. 

Steve found a Fun Dip buried under the pile, brightly claiming _‘3 Fun Dip Flavors & 2 Candy Lik-a-Stix – Dip it – taste it – wow!’ _

He ripped open the top of one of the candy sticks – but accidentally tore the top off of both instead, spilling the two candy Lik-a-Stix onto the table. He blinked down at them as Billy plucked one plain white stick up from the table top. Each one said ‘Lik-A-Stix’ on it. 

“Haven’t had one of these in years, I think.” Billy admitted, spinning the candy stick between his forefinger and thumb. 

The buzz and hum and zaps and sound of mashed buttons, toggled joysticks, and metal pinball’s rolling surrounded them in a bubble of sound, almost drowning out everything. It was like they were in a pocket of white noise, insulation, and the radio.

“Yeah, me neither.” Steve added. Not since he was a kid. It felt like it was just them.

“What flavors are they?” Billy asked, leaning over to get a better look at the flavors. 

“Lime, cherry, aaaand grape.” 

“I got dibs on the lime.” Billy grinned at him sharply as he lay languidly over the back of the chair, one arm draped over it as he raised the white candy stick to his mouth – Steve ripping the top off of the paper pack of flavors. 

“It’s too sour for me, Hargrove.” Steve made a face. “It’s all yours.”

Billy smirked at the look on Steve’s face, lips curling at the corner. “Mmh. You and your sweet shit.” He observed the stick in front of his face, holding it up, studying the writing.

“ _Lik-a-stix,_ huh?” Billy grinned suggestively over at Steve and ran the wet tip of his tongue over the length of the solid white candy stick from where he gripped it at the base. Swirling his tongue at the tip. 

He was just getting it wet to put it in the sugar, Steve thought stupidly. He realized his mouth was hanging open, something like heat crawling up his neck, lungs tight. He could almost hear Becky’s cries from last night in his head. Steve snapped his ajar mouth shut with a click and stared down at the Fun Dip pack, thinking hard as he stuck the white stick in his own mouth, wetting it thoroughly before he dunked it into the cherry – red powdery sugar clinging to the candy stick. 

Billy leaned in to dip his candy stick into the lime, all bright green as he brought it back to his mouth, mirroring Steve. Both with a Fun Dip stick in their mouth, sucking off the pure, dyed sugar. 

Billy’s tongue ran over the white stick again, the pink so stark against the white. A languid thing. The drawer was trying to rattle open. Steve was thinking about Billy on his living room floor. Thinking about Billy grinding his hips against his mother’s carefully selected rug, the one that matched the drapery, another time Steve had thought Billy Hargrove looked like the sweetest kind of sin, those hips rolling, when Billy had asked if Steve had wanted him. 

When Steve hadn’t believed he meant it – that Billy was teasing him. Mocking him. How many times had Steve thought of that moment over the past weeks? But what if? What if he meant it? What if it was _true_ , what Neil Hargrove said? What if Billy’d meant it? That couldn’t be. He was mocking him – Billy, Billy hated Steve. Had hated him. Now? Now, he didn’t know where they were at, or what Billy thought of him. Why he was even being so nice. He was always giving Steve that emotional whiplash, offering him advice one minute, shoving him to the ground the next. Steve felt like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He was watching Billy’s tongue swipe over the Lik-a-stik, like a cat’s, licking it clean, before he dipped it into the cherry flavor this time, double dipping where Steve’s had been, leaning in close once more. Dark, long lashes flicking up as those bright blue eyes met Steve’s. Close enough Steve could see the whites of those eyes, even in the darkness of their removed corner of the arcade. Teeth pearly around the candy as he gripped it in a grin, silver spike earring dangling.

“So, Harrington. You get anyone to _lick your stick_ at the party last night?” Billy's voice sounded different. Lower. Huskier.

Steve choked on his sugar. 

“Hey Steve!” Dustin exclaimed as the gaggle of kids were suddenly flooding around their table, several pairs of grabby hands exploring the pile on the tabletop. Steve almost fell out of his seat, tearing his eyes away from where they’d been anchored in Billy Hargrove’s of brightest blue, nostrils flaring wide as he tried to suck in a deep breath through his nose. 

Dustin got to distributing that new candy, the Sour Patch Kids – rebranded earlier in the year after stuff like after the Cabbage Patch Kids, or Garbage Pail Kids, but Steve still remembered them as 'Mars Men' so the package change was weird – all of them huddling around the table as everyone pulled up chairs or sat directly on the table itself, legs swinging in the air. Most of them seemed to be blatantly ignoring Billy, or giving him low key big looks under their lashes.

“Hey! What’s up?” Steve asked, coughing where he’d choked on inhaled sugar. “You guys having fun?” 

“Jeez you’re all red and sweaty and stuff. Gross. You okay, bud? You getting a cold or something?” Dustin muttered, getting up in his face.

"Yeah, you getting sick?" Billy chuckled with a dark look at Steve.

“Ohmygod, what, no, I’m fine.” Steve spat out, pushing Dustin right back out of his face. Trying to feel his forehead and shit, christ.

“Oooook-ey. Whatever you say, Steve-o. And yeah! Max totally beat her own score on Dig Dug. I don't know how it’s possible.” Dustin leaned in close to stage whisper into Steve’s ear. “I think she’s cheating!” 

“Hey! I’m not cheating!” Max threw a gumball at Dustin’s head, where it bounced off the side of his cap.

“OW!” Dustin cried, shooting her a wounded look, hand flying to the side of his head.

“Oh I didn’t throw it that hard, don’t be such a baby.” Max sniffed properly and grabbed a bag of pop rocks, throwing her head back dramatically and dumping some on her tongue, letting them crackle with her mouth hanging open. 

Billy rolled his eyes at her, and dipped the stick back into the Fun Dip just as Steve was – their knuckles brushed briefly before they both withdrew their hands in sync, eyes not meeting. Steve felt like he had some kind of electricity buried beneath his skin, spreading from his knuckles, up over the back of his hand, wrapping around his wrist like a shackle, and lighting up the bones of his forearm. 

Lucas’ arms were full of sodas, which he lay down on the table as if he’d been carrying a huge burden, clunking on the cheap white plastic.

Max shoved a coke in Steve’s direction, a Dr Pepper in Billy’s. “Drink up, boys.” Then she pressed her own Dr Pepper against the side of her face as she chewed on sour patch kids. Billy’s face warped into a deep scowl after she did that, looking away. He threw the torn off strips of tickets at her.

"Thanks, Max." Steve smiled at her, drawing the cool can of Coca Cola between his hands, condensation on his skin. 

"Mhm." She said, counting tickets. 

“Hey Dustin, I dare you to drink a soda with some of those pop rocks.” Lucas grinned over at Dustin, but it seemed a little strained as he glanced towards Billy – as if he couldn’t help the direction of his gaze, before he looked back at Dustin again. Steve wondered if it was to draw the attention away from Max's impromptu ice pack.

____

“Are you KIDDING? Do you want me DEAD, Lucas?” Dustin gasped.

____

Billy snatched up the Dr Pepper and cracked the tab back, sipping at it as he crossed his arms over the back of the chair, nursing the pop as he tilted his head down. 

____

“That’s an urban myth. It’s not true, you dipshits.” Billy snorted. 

____

“Uh, I totally heard that Debbie Reynold’s cousin’s step-sister did it and died!” Mike exclaimed, making his extra ugly, really annoyed face. 

____

“Oh what, so that means it has to be true?” Billy shook his head, clicking on the Fun Dip stick between his teeth. Dunking it back into the sugar flavoring, lime green, before he stuck it back in his mouth, sipping at the Dr Pepper around it. 

____

Dustin was chewing on a 3 Musketeers bar, lifting his nose like he was above the conversation. “My mom said it’s dangerous so I’m not doing that. They were temporarily discontinued in 1982 for a reason. One word. DEATH.”

____

“I think it was just because people were _afraid_ of dying.” Will said in his soft voice.

____

“Well the fact still stands! It’s a stupid thing to do. Do I look like I’m stupid to you?” 

____

“No doy.” Max smirked.

____

“Um shut up Max!” 

____

“ _Um_ , no! You’re such a momma’s boy.” 

____

“No I’m NOT!”

____

“Momma’s boy, momma’s boy.” Max sing-songed in an obnoxious voice.

____

“I mean you’re kind of a momma’s boy.” Lucas agreed, tilting his head with a grin as he rolled a jawbreaker into his mouth. 

____

“I’m not letting you play Atari when you come over anymore, so suck on that, Max. You too, Lucas. You’re on thin fuckin’ ice.” 

____

“There’s really no scientific basis for it.” Will added

____

“You too, Will?! Traitors!”

____

“You’re just jealous I beat you in every game.” Max laughed.

____

“You do not!”

____

“God don’t say fuck.” Steve rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

____

“Uh you say fuck when you don’t think we’re listening, _Steven_!” Dustin said.

____

“Jesus, are they like this all the time?” Billy stared at Steve. 

____

“Unfortunately, yeah.” Steve nodded, slumping in his seat.

____

“And what, you hang out with them _willingly_? That’s so sad.”

____

“Yep. I know, I know. Don’t give me that look. I dunno what’s wrong with me.”

____

“Me neither.”

____

El was tugging on Mike’s sleeve, nodding towards one of the games – Gauntlet. “Mike, what are – pop, rocks? And what is that?” She asked, watching the intro scenes playing through from a distance.

____

“Oh, that’s Gauntlet. It’s a game. I’ll show you in a sec, okay? Do you want candy first? Pop Rocks are a candy, they like, make sound when you put them in your mouth and it’s really cool. But they might explode in your stomach if you drink them with soda, so.” 

____

El nodded her head like this was very interesting information.

____

“Okay I’m just gonna have some chips first, and then we’ll go – “ 

____

Billy sighed and stood up, unfurling his back slowly. “C’mon, Janie, I’ll show you.” 

____

“You – you’ll _what_? What d’you mean, _Janie?_ ” Mike gaped up at him from his seat. 

____

“I stutter, Wheeler? I said I’ll show her. Anything to get away from you morons. Just eat your candy.” 

____

“You already ate half of it.” Max scowled. 

____

Billy slid the candy stick to the other side of his mouth, fidgeting with his tongue, snapped it in half, and chewed it up. He reached out to grab the little bag of pop rocks from Max, snatching it right out of her hands. He tapped a few bits of it into El’s hand for her to try, then dumped the rest of it onto his tongue, sending them popping. 

____

Then he lifted the Dr Pepper can midair, pouring it like a watering can into his mouth – the pop rocks went wild, snapping and crackling in his mouth like fireworks set off, before he swallowed them all down, licking his lips. El had watched him with big, dark eyes, and immediately threw her Pop Rocks into her mouth at his example, going still with initial shock, but then apparent delight as they fizzed on her tongue.

____

“See? It’s all bullshit.” Billy crushed the empty can between his fists and tossed it on the table, before following a bouncing El over to the Gauntlet game.

____

Half horrified, half impressed, Dustin whispered, “Oh my god he’s going to die. On his _birthday."_

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References list: https://lemonlovely.tumblr.com/post/178334436306/21-80s-referencesvisuals-list


	22. That's irrational

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 13th, 1985

Billy was spinning out. He knew that. He was in a tailspin and he didn’t know how to get control of himself again. Because he was pretty sure that when he went home tonight, there was a good chance that he was a dead man. The one thing that he knew had really screwed him over good – he hadn’t even _screwed_.

Sure, he’d thought about it. 

But Jesus Christ, he’d been trying to be better – trying to be who his dad wanted him to be, but that seemed like more and more of an impossible task every day, climbing the cliffs of insanity with no horizon in the sky that he could see, and nothing but a sharp drop below. 

Sure, he was always pushing the envelope with Harrington – seeing just how much the rich little straight boy could take, would take, from him. Where the limit was, where that line was, and always needing, wishing, to go beyond it – but never quite able to. 

He was in trouble for fucking a boy that he’d never dared to – and his dad had made it pretty goddamn clear that he wasn’t supposed to get into that ‘queer nonsense’ again once they moved. They’d moved one time, he wasn’t doing it again, uprooting them all or whatever for the sake of his piece of shit son. 

Sure, they used that fancy excuse of getting away from Maxine’s dad – wanting a fresh start away from him after his divorce from Susan, and him always getting up in their business all the time with Maxine. But the truth was, was that after the divorce, her pops came around every so often, but after a while, less and less. 

After a while, he stopped showing up for their arranged visiting times, but somehow – somehow Maxine was still so sure that it wasn’t her dad’s fault. That he wasn’t just some fuckin’ bum that was more interested in the next piece of tail and snorting coke in the bathroom. That time Billy’d accidentally walked in on him that time they’d all gone out to eat at a Chuck’s Steak House to work out visitation for the summer. 

She acted like he’d hung the moon. Sometimes he sent her cards on her birthday or whatever. 

Yeah, what a winner. 

Susan apparently thought she’d been moving up in the world after she’d dropped his ass, but, Billy figured, women always seemed to go for the same type. At least Billy’s dad wasn’t some cokehead, even if he had a heavy hand and drank a little much – and there was plenty of tweakers out in the OC area for her to choose from. 

Roy Mayfield still made a pretty good excuse though, for why they’d moved out here – even though the guy’d been minding his own business pretty damn well. Billy didn’t think Maxine had seen Roy in at least six months before they’d left Cali. 

It meant Neil didn’t have to tell nobody the real reason.

Billy stuffed his hands in his pockets as they walked along towards the bowling alley, a stiff breeze rushing over their little group as the clouds on the horizon rolled steadily over Hawkins, spreading like a black plague of locusts to eat up the brilliant fire colors of the sunset. Swallowing the town up in darkness and cloud banks – light posts flickering on one at a time, neon lighting brightening the night over The Hawk and The Palace and some of the dingy bars hawking their drinkable wares. 

Stoplights flashed yellow. That was the kind of town this was – the kind where stoplights didn’t work at night ‘cause there wasn’t enough traffic. 

Yeah, Billy was going down hard for something he hadn’t even done, even if he’d dreamed about it, even if he’d thought about it and told himself he hadn’t, he never had, and never would, get his hands on that pale freckled skin of Steve Harrington. 

When Billy breathed in deep, he could smell the coming rain, and he could smell that same boy’s expensive Armani cologne, and whatever fruity girly kinda hair product he must use. Smelled real good. Billy tried to breathe more, to unclamp his lungs to remember that scent, to mark it into his mind. 

He’d already done more than he should, he figured – light touches that he normally wouldn’t make in public outside of a locker room, licking the shit outta that candy stick and thinking of something else, something _harder,_ though the look on Harrington’s face had been pretty priceless, Billy had to admit. 

Always pushing that envelope. Wanting to see what was past that very _straight_ line. And Billy’d asked him, he’d asked him had somebody licked his stick last night? Last night at the party? 

And he wanted to know, while at the same time, he didn’t. He knew that it was probably pretty fucked up, like, mentally fucked up of him to not be wanting Harrington to have been with some Hawkins cow with his pants ‘round his ankles while Billy had been upstairs shoving Becky’s face into the mattress on repeat – that shit was hypocritical as hell, and yeah, he could admit that. 

He couldn’t exactly explain it, either, not to himself. Not to anyone. 

Couldn’t explain why the only way he could get hard with his dick wet in some bitch was thinking about someone decidedly not female, with a brunette mop, not fried blonde, and that milk white skin dotted in beauty marks he’d almost low-key memorized in the showers. 

Freckles he could connect with a sharpie to make constellations if the sky weren’t hazed over in cloud cover. 

Unable to come with her baying like a fucking beagle. Ruined the entire illusion he’d had going. 

It’d been a while since Billy’d ‘licked a stick’ so to speak. It had been a long while – months. The last time Maxine had walked in on him, he knew. 

Billy shivered in the sharp April breeze, goosebumps rising on his arms, when he wondered what it would be like with Harrington – flicking his tongue over the white candy coating tip, flicking his tongue over _Harrington’s_ tip. 

Thoughts he’d been trying not to let himself have. But now it was suddenly all he could think about, gonna die for this shit he hadn’t even been allowing himself to _think_ about, what he’d told himself he wasn’t thinking about when he jacked off in bed, in the shower. Like what the fuck. Now the floodgates had opened so that he could just think about it, for what he’d never had, and was never going to get, when he was already in a shitload of trouble for it. 

This honestly probably wasn’t even the time to be thinking about it – Billy knew it wasn’t the time. The gaggle of little Whiz Kids and Maxine were all walking ahead of them, talking loudly about some shit or another, Wheeler and Janie talking quietly together, heads dipped towards each other with some unseen weight, a foil covered tray held in her hands – while Henderson, Sinclair, and Maxine bitched at each other about something with X-men. 

Billy was idly processing what they were saying in the back of his mind. Sinclair and Henderson seemed to be trying to explain some concept to Maxine, which gave him enough reason to pay some halfhearted attention.

“No no, you’re thinking about it all wrong. Professor Xavier. Get it? Like that.” Henderson said.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot. I get it, I just think you’re wrong.” Maxine stuck her nose up in the air like little miss priss.

“How is that wrong?”

“Because I said she’s like Jean Grey.”

“No way, Professor X! Jean Grey is – “

“What? Just ‘cause Jean Grey’s a girl?”

“I didn’t say that!” Henderson gestured wildly.

“I mean Professor X is the strongest telepath – “ Sinclair added in. Seemed to be treading carefully around her.

“But the point I’m making is that Jean Grey is a stronger telekinetic, so, therefore, obviously, she’s more like Jean Grey! She uses both!”

“Technically that’s only because of the Phoenix – “

“No it’s not! Did you not read the Dark Phoenix Saga?” 

“How can you ask me that?” Henderson sounded wounded.

“Have you met him?” Sinclair laughed.

“Then how can you say it’s just because of Phoenix?! I just think if you’re going to be comparing her to somebody, it should obviously be Jean.” 

_Comparing who?_

“That’s irrational, Professor X is telekinetic too and – “ 

“Oh thanks _Spock_ , and okay maybe but LIKE BARELY?”

Billy tuned out their dumbass conversation. He had no idea why the hell they were talking about X-men like some serious life subject. 

That kid they called ‘Zombie Boy’ – Will Byers – he walked a little off to the side, his head tilted as he sort of watched the buildings as they walked by, like he was keeping an eye on the shadows, a distant look on his face. Billy wasn’t spooked by him like most of this dumpster of a town. There was a lot worse to be spooked by than some boy that went missing in the woods or whatever. Not that Billy was ever scared of anything.  
But he definitely had a different way about him, that much Billy could admit. 

And Harrington himself walked alongside Billy, smelling amazing like usual, and looking real pretty in the glow of the street lamps and that peculiar rain-shine that came from clouds at night – like this stone gray light that came from within the clouds themselves, holding heavy with rain, reflecting lights from the streets below. 

Billy knew even if he told his dad he hadn’t done it, his dad wouldn’t believe him. His old man never believed him about shit like that. That faggoty shit. Even when Billy was trying not to be, what sort of a difference did it make? He still got blamed for the same old thing, even when he hadn’t even had a dick in his mouth since Cali – hadn’t sucked cock in months. 

So, what was the _point_ of trying so hard to be who he should be, be right in the head, be what his pops wanted him to be, when it didn’t – even – make – a - difference?  
_Fuck._

He still got called a fag, still got slapped around for it, still had the assumption made just ‘cause he had another dude’s fancy ass leather wallet in his pocket with a couple _unused_ rubbers that he’d been obviously been fucking the guy. 

As if Billy could have friends. 

And now he’d pay the price for it. It wasn’t fucking fair. But Billy knew better than most, maybe, that life wasn’t fair. It was never fair. You just got shit hand of cards after shit hand of cards, and the blows never stopped coming, and nothing ever got better – if anything, things only ever got worse. 

He kept _waiting_ for them to get better – but they never did. Just got worse. And he didn’t want to say it was making him bitter or something, but. But. 

Billy didn’t want to go back to the Hargrove house tonight. He knew he had nowhere else to go. He was just getting so fucking tired. Exhausted. He was constantly working, constantly trying, working out to be bigger, stronger, faster, making up for what, he didn’t know, being the best on the court, and it was getting him nowhere. 

Billy’s head was starting to hurt – pounding insistently in the front, all around his forehead, and his temples. Respect and responsibility. Faggot. You know what happens when you disobey me. I break things. Billy buried his hands deeper into his jean pockets, kicking a discarded, empty soda can – the aluminum bouncing off of a curb as they crossed the street that was virtually empty of cars. 

“Hey, you alright? You look like you’re about a million miles away.” 

Billy blinked, glancing up at Harrington, who walked alongside him, that halfway crooked smile on his face, flashing those straight white teeth at him, his hair all nice and perky. Billy straightened his shoulders, head tipping back as he grinned at Harrington, a lazy, idle thing. Face tilted to the side. 

“’Course I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I dunno. Just seemed like you were thinking about something.”

“Trying to figure out why the hell I’m hanging out ‘downtown’ with you losers. If you can call this downtown.” 

Honestly, the thoughts about going back to the house tonight, about facing his dad again, were filling up his head like cotton. Stuffed in his ears, too. Making it hard to hear, hard to focus. Hard to think. He was in a fucking fog. Hard to focus on anything really, ‘cept for Harrington. 

He almost felt like himself when he had Harrington in front of him, hands at his elbows, leeching on his body heat when he normally never would have allowed himself so close in public for fear of it getting back to his dad.  
That was the sorta shit guys did with girls when they were ‘showing them how to do something’, but really, there was no real reason for having to physically touch them to instruct.  
Maybe now he just doesn’t give a damn. Although, after that, Harrington had started to act a little weird, a little distant. But it wasn't that much different from how Billy treated him on the court, in the locker rooms - this was just more public. And there was no way he could have known. No way. It'd rattled Billy for a bit - made him anxious. 

But he might as well steal a few moments for himself for something he was gonna get it for anyway.

It felt like he’d been locking away some part of himself, some vital part of himself, wrapped in iron chains, tossed to the bottom of the Pacific off a Cali beach. He could scream in frustration from the sensation of it. 

From that missing part of himself, like a ghost limb he could only just remember. 

In one pocket, Billy’s hand curled around the tiny pack of Big Red that Maxine got for him at the arcade like a little shit weasel, being all nicey-nice, making Billy suspicious. She was never nice.

He pulled out a piece of the cinnamon red gum, popping it in his mouth to give himself something to chew on. If he didn’t get a pack of smokes of his own soon, he was gonna lose his mind. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t stop his brain from going around on a track loop. He needed some nicotine to soothe his nerves. The gum didn’t help much. He shared a piece with Harrington. 

They were about to pass The Hawk where a bunch of Hawkins High kids and middle school dorks were slumming around outside, a popular hang out. Alamo Bay was still showing, which Susan wanted to go with to Neil (barf) because it was somethin’ bout this Vietnam Vet in Texas and his lady, and that LadyHawke one that just came out the other day that looked like a real trip. 

Maxine wanted to go see that one with her nerd squad. Billy foresaw having to be the one to drive her in his near future. The kids were farther ahead than him ‘n Harrington, and they were still crossing the street, rounding the corner. Billy lifted his chin as they got close to the neon glow of The Hawk and the white shine of the huge marquee sign stating the titles in bold black. 

Billy’d heard about Tommy spray painting red up there for Nancy the Slut Wheeler – it was one of those stories Tommy’d tell on repeat to anybody’d that listen, and it got more detailed and skewed each time he told it, ‘till Harrington had apparently caught her fucking Jonathan Byers on her bed and either gone apeshit, or possibly joined in, depending on the mood Tommy was in when he told it. 

If he brought up red spray paint again Billy was gonna punch him in his fucking nose. 

That was the day Harrington had officially turned bitch, apparently, and turned his back on Tommy and Carol, which they were still licking their wounds over even if they wouldn’t say so. 

“The draw of the highly popular Hawkins bowling alley was clearly too much.” Harrington smiled at him, chewing on the gum Billy’d gave him. 

“Clearly.” Billy snorted. “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Harrington laughed at the dry sarcasm, tilting his head back as he glanced up at the heavy clouds, squinting a bit if he’d felt a drop on his face, making a really dumb look. Like a confused puppy. It was cute as hell. Billy kind of hated it. He tilted his head back a bit too to look up at the sky, mirroring Harrington, as if he could judge if it was starting to sprinkle that way. 

“I think it’s gonna rain.”

“Yeah no shit. At least that vest’ll keep you dry.”

“Haha, so funny.” 

“So is there seriously nothin’ else to do here besides bowl or catch a flick or what? What do you do? Tip cows? If you play tractor chicken out here like on Footloose, I’m never talking to you again.” Billy asked.

Harrington laughed more at that. A real good belly laugh. Billy’d never made him laugh like that before. Didn’t know he could. Billy didn’t hate that so much. He grinned up at the sky, and felt a drop on his cheek, too. 

“Who does that make you? Kevin Bacon? And we’re not _that_ backwater, despite what you seem to think.”

“I look a helluva lot better than _Kevin Bacon_. I know you got cows here, Harrington. I’ve been to the high school. Don’t lie to me. Tractors too. This place is like some farmer hick’s wet dream.”

“Okay, _Ren_. Well I can’t promise you cow tipping or tractor chicken, but there’s s’posed to be a mall openi – “ 

“Hey freaks!” Came a yell from up ahead. Billy’s head snapped back down. Harrington went quiet, coming to attention.

The kids had been farther up ahead of them by several feet. As Harrington and Billy rounded the corner after The Hawk, there was a group of younger kids – Billy recognized one of ‘em as a freshman, but hell if he knew his name. He’d seen him dicking around in the parking lot before with some other freshies. He had a dumbass haircut and he always looked a little primped like he had a mom that cared a little too much. Billy mighta heard a rumor about him pissing himself at the middle school a few years back, but honestly, he didn’t pay much attention.  
Just knew people seemed to think he was fuckin’ nuts. Billy thought he might have spent the summer over in Pennhurst when he’d started carrying on about people flying, real crackpot shit. That was the sorta thing people didn’t shut up about for a long time, when you were checked into the resident nuthouse. 

“Ah shit.” Harrington said.

Things happened very quickly from there.

“It’s her! It’s that girl! The psychos-s-sumatic Russian! It’s that little witch bitch!” 

“Oh my god, Troy – Troy stop.” One of the other freshman boys said, who’d been leaning against the old brick alley wall. It sounded like an old argument, worn to the bone.

“No! No James saw it too! I’m not crazy!” The freshie – Troy, yelled. He sure looked fuckin’ crazy. Off his meds nuts.

“But James moved – “

“Because of her! James just couldn’t handle it! Not like me! I’m gonna fuckin’ kill her!” Troy shouted.

It took Billy a second to realize who the hell he was talking about. Janie was standing there real stoic, little hands making fists at her sides, feet planted in a way Billy admired, and Wheeler had stepped in front of her like some sorta white knight or some shit, while Henderson and Sinclair were hanging at her sides – Byers behind her - and Maxine was, typically, rushing the guy. Christ.

“Leave her alone, dickbag!” Maxine was shouting, red hair flying out around her, getting in the guy’s face.

“Max! Get away from him!” Sinclair shouted.

“Shut it Midnight! And you can’t protect that little witch, Ginger! None of you faggots can!”

Nobody fuckin’ yelled at Maxine but Billy. The corner of Billy’s mouth twitched at the ‘faggots’ line.

“This sunuvabitch is dead.” Billy muttered, drawing his hands out of his pockets as he picked up his pace, stalking towards them like a lion from where he and Harrington had lagged behind. 

Harrington was a step ahead of him on those long gazelle legs of his, saying “Leave them alone, Troy.” Stepping in front of all of them like a shield, reaching out to place a hand on Maxine’s shoulder, drawing her back behind him. Arms crossed over his chest like he was tough shit, chin canted down. 

Billy was coming up behind them like a freight train, and he wasn’t planning on stopping. He heard Wheeler whispering something frantically to Janie about ‘rules’ and ‘hopper’ and ‘you can’t, okay? _Please._ I won’t get to see you again if you do. _Do you understand?_ ’ 

‘But Mike…mouthbreather…’ She had a frown in her voice.  
Henderson chanting ‘ohmygodohmygodohmygod’ under his breath.  
Byers looking around like a frightened little bird. 

Billy saw the flash of a silver pocket knife. A long one, a switch blade he reckoned. Opened like a butterfly, with a movement of the wrist. This kid had a huge death wish, swinging a knife around anywhere close to his sister, her nerd pals, and Steve Harrington. A real death wish. 

“Do you know what she did to me?!” Troy screamed up into Harrington’s face, spittle flying - metal flashing. “Go on you little witch! Show them! Do it!”

Harrington started to hold out his hands, palms out. A placating motion. A pussy motion. 

“Look we can talk about this, just put away the knife – “ Harrington started. 

He was always all fuckin’ talk. Sometimes you just had to take action. Sometimes words just didn’t do it. Couldn’t always ‘talk things out.’ Took one to know one.

Billy sideswiped around the gaggle of Whiz Kids, making a beeline towards Harrington and that Pennhurst psycho. He felt Janie’s eyes on him. Burning into the back of his head, like she was urging him on. He didn’t know what the hell was going on – not that he wouldn’t find out later – but for the moment, Billy was a man of action. He always was. 

There was the arch of a silver blade through the air, and Harrington seemed to sense Billy alongside him, coming up behind him, because he tilted his head to the side just so. And for a second it was like when they were on the basketball court, and Harrington moved perfectly around him like a moon orbiting a planet – Troy seemed to register Billy at the same moment, eyes going round as saucers as he let out a garbled ‘oh SHI-‘ as Billy stepped in to lay his fist into the kid’s face, ring glinting - half expecting him to piss himself again. 

The switchblade clattered to the ground. 

 

\---------------------------

 

“OH MY GOD THAT WAS AWESOME!” Henderson was laughing as they plopped down around the hard, wooden paneled and orange vinyl, booth circa 1970. It was currently on ‘My Sharona.’ “Did you see the look on his face! Oh that was great. That was priceless. I wish I had a camera. Oh man.” 

They were all circled around a plate of chili cheese fries loaded with extra cheese, picking at it from each angle. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke, a haze of it hovering around the fluorescent ceiling lights – sixties and seventies music was pumping from speakers hanging on either end of the bowling alley, but the clatter of pins and ten pound balls hitting the wooden alleys was almost enough to drown it out. 

People were laughing, talking, yelling at the game that was on TV behind the bar – which was holding about twenty five percent of Billy’s attention. Harrington’s too, it seemed.

It had been satisfying, was what it had been. Billy’d been needing a fight for a while. It was this sorta itch that gathered itself in his bones, made him want to splinter apart with it until he could really feel his knuckles breaking upon impact – and hitting the drywall last night really hadn’t done it for him.

The splits in his knuckles had reopened on his left hand after laying into that Troy kid’s face – which he hadn’t really messed up that bad, honestly. Mostly he’d just thrown him around the alley for a while, teach him a lesson, ‘till Harrington had managed to pull him off and Troy and his little bookies had run off down the alley like a bunch of pussies. 

Couple of the others had tried to jump on Billy’s back and he’d thrown them into the alley wall – his back fucking _hurt_ , he didn’t need some little assholes jumping onto it, shit.

Maxine’s dumbass friends hadn’t shut up since. Like they literally would not shut up, and it was starting to get pretty annoying. Going on about him taking three of them at once, even if they were only freshman – like they weighed more than a sack of potatoes. As if it mattered.

"I mean did you see the way he just threw those guys into the wall? Like they were nothing!" Henderson almost yelled, flinging his hands out. 

"And man when Troy started crying for his mom - " Sinclair shook his head, but he was still giving Billy a wary look. “I mean I GUESS it was okay, but still, he – “

“Yeah, yeah I _guess._ ” Wheeler agreed, but it didn't sound like an agreement.

"But he did end up in Pennhurst..." Byers frowned. "Because. You know." 

"Well ok, but from what you guys told me, maybe he just totally deserved a cool off over in Kerley County." Maxine said. "And swinging a switchblade around like a total psycho? Shyeah. I bet he went crying to his mommy."

"Yeah. He is NOT a good person." Sinclair's eyes got big as he glanced at Billy - like he couldn't decide if Billy was a good person, either, or if the two somehow canceled each other out.

For good or bad, Billy had hit him hard enough to teach him you never pulled out a blade anywhere near Maxine, Harrington, or their ragtag group of misfits. That was for damn sure.

All of the kids were on the written roster for Lane 7, but Harrington had opted out of actually bowling – Billy had a sneaking suspicion it had to do with Maxine pulling him aside after they’d gotten to the alley and whispered in his ear and thrown Billy some big look before scurrying away. 

Annoyed the shit outta him, not knowing what the hell she was saying about him – talkin' about him behind his back, but whatever. He was too fucking tired to deal. Last night was really catching up with him. Either way, Harrington didn’t want to bowl, and maybe it was for the best – because Billy knew the minute he was on that roster, Billy would have had to be too, because there was no goddamn way he’d let Harrington bowl without him to show him how it was done. 

Because Billy could beat him at anything. He was sure of it. Either way, he liked the competition with Harrington. Honestly, it’d probably be like shooting fish in a barrel, ‘cause Harrington had straight up said that he wasn’t any good at bowling earlier anyway. Billy wasn’t feeling especially up to lifting a ten pound ball, but he’d sure as hell do it if he had to. He’d sunk the balls at the arcade, he could do it here, too. He refused to whine and bitch over a sore back. He was better than that. Stronger than that. He’d had worse. This was nothing. He’d just grit his teeth and get over it. He always did.

“I mean OKAY. Hear me out.” Henderson kept blathering on. He had these huge eyes, his mouth hanging open. He was staring at Billy, pointing with a dripping cheese fry at him. Billy frowned back at him. “Have we ever considered if he was on OUR side?” 

“Party meeting.” Wheeler snapped. 

“What, _now_?” Sinclair asked. 

“Yes _now_ c’mon.’” 

The gaggle of pre-teens all slid out of the booth to converge on the old fashioned soda machines against the wall, in a huddled circle, discussing something heatedly. Billy rolled his eyes. 

“Christ. They’re a fuckin’ lot.” Billy shook his head, ate another chili fry. “The hell they mean sides…they ever shut up?”

Harrington smiled at him wryly.  
“Yeah. They’re real trouble. They grow on you, though. You know, you actually really freaked them out last fall...But I’m pretty sure you just mostly won them over by beating up their, I dunno, ‘arch nemesis’ or something. An apology might also go a long way with them. And no, not really.” 

“Arch nemesis.” Billy snorted. “And man, I don't really care if they're freaked out. Why would I? And that kid. What is that guy’s deal, anyway?”

“Troy?” 

“Yeah.”

“It’s…it’s kind of a long story. I only sorta know bits and pieces of it from what the guys have told me.” Harrington shrugged glancing away – gazing towards the ‘party’ group over at the other end of the alley. 

Lane 2 burst into cheering over something or another. 

“Hmm.” Billy hummed articulately, gaze drifting down to the fries as he scarfed s’more down. Balancing out all of that sugar with salt. “We got time.”

But Harrington was just kinda picking at them and not eating too much. 

“Yeah, maybe, maybe later.”

Billy was thinkin.’ Thinkin’ real hard, he s’posed. He threw Harrington a calculating look. It was an equation, really. That’s all it was. A long, drawn out equation, but all the same it had a value. He started at the beginning, laying it out in his mind as he might write out variable and constants to discover his eventual value. 

Billy ate another fry, eyes flicking over to their lane. The kids were slowly filtering back, bickering with each other over the bowling balls – finally starting the game and obviously still discussing whatever it was they’d had a ‘meeting’ about, god they were lame. Wheeler was showing Janie how to hold the ball with her two fingers and thumb, and she seemed distinctly unimpressed, with what, Billy didn’t know. 

Janie eventually came over and uncovered the foil sealed dish – revealing the Eggos she’d slathered in bright blue frosting earlier in the day with Maxine, laughing and giggling at the kitchen table - smearing each other's faces with blue frosting - while Billy’d cleaned up the dishes from their late lunch. She’d taken the time to stick a birthday candle in each one, those little twisty looking ones with stripes around them. Kind of like multi colored candy canes with wicks. 

The kids all ganged up behind her, their game on pause.

Harrington smiled at him real sweet as he pulled the silver zippo out of his pocket, flicked it open, and started to light the absolutely bizarre Eggo cupcakes – he only lit one, then used that candle to light all of the others. Billy sat real still, working his jaw, arms folding across his chest as he closed himself off, chin canting down, eyeing them with a blank mask like he didn’t fuckin’ care – just sort of glowering at them. 

Because he didn’t. 

He didn’t know why they were doin’ this – not like they was friends, christ, these kids loathed him, of that he was sure. He’d given them good reason. He didn’t know if Harrington was much better. But apparently Janie was leading some kind of a Birthday Eggo Bandwagon and they were jumping on it with her to ride it into hell. 

“Um…do we sing?” Byers asked softly.

“No. No, he’ll kill you, maybe.” Maxine said real helpfully. She was probably right. Billy grunted in affirmation.

“Jesus, I told Janie not to do this. It’s not a big deal.” Billy frowned.

“I wanted to.” Janie said with a small smile. “Birthday.”

“Just blow the candles out, huh?” Harrington smiled, just for him, Billy thought. “Make a wish. The wax is dripping all over.” He smiled in just a way that he got these little crinkles around those chocolate dark eyes. Billy’s heart twisted. 

“If I do, will you assholes leave me alone?” 

He glanced up at the gaggle of preteens half surrounding the booth, some seated, some just leaning over the table. Only Sinclair was kind of standing back, arms crossed, looking elsewhere. Standoffish. Wheeler also looked like he could have better places to be, but was looking all moonfaced at Janie.  
But Maxine had slid in next to him, and was elbowing him in the side. He elbowed her back, hard enough to make her stop. He desperately wanted this to be over and to be anywhere but here. A flush crawling up his neck in the glow of birthday candles.

“Yeah, sure, buddy.” Henderson smiled back at him with his weird little smile. Like Billy tossing Troy around like a ragdoll had actually changed something. Or whatever it was they’d been talking about over by the wall in their little ‘meeting.’ Billy regretted his life decisions. Really.

“Literally don’t ever call me that again.” 

“Will do.” Henderson nodded with a nervous laugh.

Everybody was staring expectantly at him – all of the attention on him – which normally Billy LIKED that. All of the attention being on him. But he didn’t like it so much now. 

He scowled back at them, grumpy, before glancing down contemplatively at the eggos on fire. He had a weird, half twisted memory of a lopsided, vanilla birthday cake with uneven letters spelled out on it in yellow lemon frosting.  
He made a split second decision. 

He made a wish, glancing once at Harrington beneath his lashes, swallowing hard. He blew out the candles in one rush of breath, like a wolf, before he bit the inside of his cheek and leaned back in his seat – the trails of candle smoke joining the smog of nicotine and tar hanging heavy in the air. 

“Happy, you goddamn hyenas?” They were mostly all just grinning stupidly at him. Billy was distinctly uncomfortable, he decided.

He slid down in his seat a little. It was ruining his image, dammit. 

“Happy Birthay, Billy.” Maxine grinned and started pulling the candles out, sucking the frosting off the tips, which Janie immediately parroted – mirroring the little red head until they had a pile of candles between them, sharing a few with Byers.

Everybody bit into a blue smeared Eggo, frosting on lips and flecked on cheeks and Harrington got some on the tip of his nose. Billy smirked at him. 

“You got something on your face, pretty boy.” He said, fighting the urge to reach out and swipe it off for him, taste the frosting. Maxine gave him a big grossed out look that Billy tried his best to ignore the implications of.

Once the kids were properly buzzed up on blue frosting and sugar, with blue fingertips, they all rushed back to the ball feed, Sinclair shoving Henderson out of the way as Byers followed slowly behind – Wheeler and Janie being all lovey dovey over their Eggos and Maxine hefting up a ball that was probably way too heavy for her, Billy figured.  
Billy rubbed at the back of his knuckles, which were freshly scabbed over again, and studied their backs as he thought about his wish. 

“So what did you wish for?” Harrington asked, prompting Billy to turn back towards him.

“Can’t tell.” Billy grinned cockily at the brunette, plucking one of the blue Eggo discs up and biting into it. God it was too sweet. He made a face and put it back, with a big bite out of it. Harrington laughed and stole it to finish it up. 

Harrington and Billy sat that way for a while, lounging in the uncomfortable orange and brown vinyl booth, bullshitting over the game on the distant, tiny box television set with the tin foil bunny ears behind the bar, and over the kid’s scores, and about how the gaggle of middle aged dudes several lanes down kept ‘woo!’ing like a buncha hens. Some sort of bowling team. Harrington thought it was hilarious because he knew most of them. They sipped at sodas. They talked about everything and nothing. It was…nice. 

But Billy was still working on the equation. Somewhere in the back of his mind. 

This was such a small town, it had enough gossip to fill up a goddamn encyclopedia collection. There was more than enough to go around. People here never shut up about each other’s business. 

There was the apparent Russian girl with psychic powers. Troy pissing himself, broken arm, talking about people flying – ends up in Pennhurst.

That whole fuckfest with the Hawkins Lab chemical spills shortly after they’d moved to Hawkins. 

The sketchy ass shit that ‘Eleven’ (hell if he’d call her that though) had been telling him, her identity tattooed into her arm – the things he couldn’t put his finger on. 

Locks that moved on their own. The tv flicking channels when he couldn’t find a clicker. 

Wheeler’s insistent whispering that she _couldn’t_ do something.

Troy screaming for her to do it. To _show them._

The Whiz Kids discussing powers, comparing someone to Jean Grey or Professor Xavier. 

The way she had known things she couldn’t possibly know. _Monster._

Billy’s mouth twitched.  
There was no way. 

He twisted around in his seat, wincing a little as his back muscles protested the sharp movement, as he zeroed in on the kids making a gaggle around the ball feed. He narrowed those blue eyes, mouth pinching, as he focused on Janie. She stared right back at him with those fathomless eyes, face blank. Billy felt something like spiders crawlin’ ‘cross his skin, making the hairs on his arms stand on end. His brain felt itchy again.

Then she turned, held the ball up, and the way she was holding it – the way she rolled it down onto the wood – he was sure it’d be a gutter ball. Billy watched it straighten out like a confused bird to fly a straight path – it hurtled down the wooden lane to connect perfectly in the center of the pins, scattering them in a strike. She wiped at her nose, back turned to them.

Billy crowed as the nerd kids cheered her on, turning back to Harrington, who had half of his face buried in his hands, peeking out at the lane from between his fingers, sighing into his palms. 

“Did you fuckin’ see that shit Harrington? First time bowling my ass – did you – “

“Yeah I saw it…” Harrington grumbled, then whispered more to himself “Hopper is going to murder me. This is so _not_ ‘under the radar.’ Christ.” 

But Billy still heard it, and he slid over to the edge of the booth against the partition wall, leaning over the table towards Harrington - bracing his elbows on the top.

“That – this – the Troy kid. That night last fall. This whole thing fuckin’ stinks, Harrington. You know that? You wanna start talkin’ or what?” 

He threw another excited look towards the lane, where the kids were sprawling into the cheap plastic chairs, and Wheeler was up. He got a gutter ball. Billy snorted, then turned his burning gaze back onto Harrington, who finally dropped his hands away from his stressed-out face, looking heavenward and stuffing some fries in his mouth – as if to give himself a minute to think.

“I dunno what you’re talking about.” He said around a mouthful of fries.

“You sure as hell do. Don’t give me that bullshit.”

Harrington looked down a little too sharply, a fine muscle in his jaw jumping, dark eyes flashing at Billy. "It’s not bullshit.” He snapped.

“I’m gonna find out what’s going on here one way or another. This, this isn’t like some Ninja Turtles shit."

“A – huh? A what?”

“You know, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? Mutants? Toxic chemical spill, turtles _go in_ chemical spill, get some crazy ass powers like – “

“Woah woah woah, okay, this is – god, you sound like Dustin– I mean I can’t, I’m not talking about this with you. Okay?”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” Billy said to the ‘Dustin’ comment. “Look, I know how insane it sounds. This kinda shit doesn’t happen in real life, Harrington. You think I don’t know that? You have a better explanation for me? About Janie?”

“I don’t have anything for you. I’m not talking about this here.”

“So there is something to talk about.” Billy pushed, his heart beating faster. 

He was gonna fucking find out what happened last fall. He was. He was finally gonna figure out what the hell was wrong with this town – and he was gonna figure out what was going on with Jane. What had happened to Maxine, maybe. Why she’d been _different_ since last fall. 

“I – no, there’s not! Look, just drop it, please? Just drop it.” Harrington was looking around all nervous, fidgeting in his seat, like he was expecting someone to be listening in. But who the hell would be listening to their conversation? Nobody was particularly close but the kids, and they were all taking turns at the lane. He was leaning forward, waving a hand all crazy – trying to keep his voice down. The dark circles under his eyes seemed more pronounced, angry purple smudges, and he looked even more tired than usual. Why was he always so tired?

Janie was up again. She got another magical strike.

Jean Grey. Xavier. Troy. Hawkins Lab. Flick, flick, the channels changed. The locks spun in place. The bowling ball _moved_.

This wasn’t just Ninja Turtles. Or X-men. This was some Carrie ass shit.

Billy was almost sure. As fuckin’ nuts as it sounded – maybe it could be real. Maybe he was losing his mind just like Troy. Maybe he’d gotten hit too hard in the head one too many times. Like Harrington’d said. Dropped too many times as a child, and it was catching up with him. Maybe he’d end up over at Pennhurst, too. Maybe he was finally cracking under the pressure.

“This ain’t real? Tell me I’m crazy.” He muttered low to Harrington. He wasn’t sure what he wanted – a confirmation or a denial. “And don’t you lie to me.” 

Harrington stared back him pensively, catching at his lower lip between his teeth, those whiskey dark eyes searching Billy’s. He didn’t say anything. Billy fucking _knew_ it. 

“Maxine Mayfield.” A familiar voice snapped. Billy almost blanched in his seat. Almost. It was like being in a horror movie, in slow mode. 

He turned to look at the exact same time as Maxine, several feet over at the ball feed. Billy almost slunk down in his seat, as if that would somehow possibly hide him, but he knew she’d already seen him. 

Susan was looking real I Love Lucy, as per usual, with her red hair curled up in a bun with her perfect bangs, pearl earrings and costume jewelry necklace, with a big ole’ fifties style, yellow housewife dress and heels. She stuck out like a sore thumb in the middle of the smoke clouded bowling alley with gum stuck to the floor, bad seventies music playing, her hands on her hips, purse looped around her elbow. She was tapping one white heel on the floor. She looked livid. 

“Ah damn.” Billy sighed. 

“Woah she looks pissed.” Harrington mumbled, voice dying in his throat, as he eyed Susan over Billy’s shoulder – lashes spread wide. 

“Yep.” Billy agreed, popping the ‘p.’ 

“Aw Mom,” Maxine let out a dying gasp as she staggered over to the booth, head tilted back up to stare at her ma. 

“Don’t you ‘aw mom’ me young lady. Do you have any idea the amount of trouble you’re in?” Susan snapped, but softened slightly when she caught sight of her daughter’s face – reaching out to gently brush her self-manicured fingers over Maxine’s cheek. Her forehead. Voice soft, too. “Oh Maxie. Just. Just get in the car. You’re done for tonight. We’re going home.” 

Billy wondered if he sat still enough, he might become invisible, and she’d completely overlook him being there. 

“William.” 

No dice. She never called him William. Never. Shit. The weight of earlier settled back upon his shoulders, a familiar thing. What the hell had his dad told her?

Billy slowly looked up at her from where he was slouching, putting an easy smile on his face, lounging casually in the hard orange vinyl seat, grinning up at her. Earring swinging. “Good to see you Susan.” He tried. “How was your trip?”

“Hey Mrs. Hargrove.” Harrington added

“Don’t try to sweet talk me, mister.” She told Billy, eyes burning bright like blue fire, her lips pursed up tight, and she looked like she was about to cry. 

She only glanced once at Harrington, and didn’t say anything in reply to him – just sort of sized him up. Harrington went dead quiet in front of him at that look, which was a miracle – he never shut up.  
Billy thought again of the wallet that had miraculously materialized in the pocket of Harrington’s chinos. His stomach went sour. 

Harrington wasn’t the only one to go quiet. So had the kids gathered around Lane 7. They were all just _staring_. The rest of the bowling alley, however, continued to hoot and holler and scatter pins, and the seventies music continued to play over the speakers. 

“We are going to have a discussion. Get in the car.” 

Billy opened his mouth. She held up a hand and made a tutting sound without even looking at him.

“Uh-uh. No. Go. Just…just go.” She could hardly look at him. She pointed towards the doors, towards the car.

Billy got up. Threw one last look at Harrington, who could only stare back at him with this helpless sorta expression. And they went.

\-------------- 

The rain came down, steady. It didn’t let up. It was that frigid sort of April rain, the kind that was supposed to bring May flowers, but you weren’t entirely sure if it was going to turn to snow once the temperature dropped low enough. That was apparently the sort of shit you had to put up with here, the farther north you got, the farther east you traveled. The more dense the humidity became, and the shittier the weather. 

It was the sort of cold that really settled into your bones, lay heavy upon your skin, when the wind bit right through cloth and denim as if there were nothing there at all – chilling you straight to your very core. That was the sort of weather it was, and after last night, Billy was over it. He’d been over it since last October, really. 

He stood in front of the Camaro – or behind it, really, icy hands buried in his pockets, though the poor excuse of cover didn’t seem to keep the pink away from his fingertips, or the stiffness out of his knuckles. Even the silver of his ring burned him like fire. Lenore’s trunk had been hanging open when Susan pulled up. 

It was dark. She’d hurried Maxine into the house, tucked into floral raincoats that Susan had brought along, ducking beneath a cheery yellow umbrella that matched the cheery yellow door to the front house – bright and daffodil like a lie. What a crock of shit. Billy stood in his borrowed white tank top, muscles flexing and unflexing along the cords of his arms, twining from his biceps down to his forearms. Rinse and repeat.

Fingers clenching like they might snap, making fists in his pockets that were almost too tight to fit his entire hands. The rain had him chilled. But what he saw before him was rather entirely worse. He had to keep on blinking the rainwater from his eyes, where it streamed down from the golden curls gathered across his crown, where they lay sopping and wet. Lenore’s trunk hung open like a gaping wound – the trunk where he’d tucked away books to keep them away from his pop’s prying eyes. And although he’d been keyless, they’d clearly been in use. 

Billy just stared. The bag of books, crumpled paperbacks that had been dog-eared and carefully tucked away, with creased covers and yellowing pages, had been emptied of it’s contents. The books lay in the trunk, spines ripped apart at the vertebrae glue, worn covers disconnected, pages ripped out in chunks or in single leaflets – all of it a soggy mess of rapidly disintegrating paper, where puddles of rainwater gathered like stagnant little ponds of ink and smudged words. 

The dark, old cover of his Frankenstein book was off to the side – defected and dissected like the body of the monster, left to the elements and the weather and time. Pulled apart, before it was sewn back together. Billy slowly tugged a hand from one pocket to reach towards it, but it hovered like that – a nervous bird, stuck in mid-flight, before he realized there was a fine tremor running through his marrow, sending his fingertips shaking like leaves in the fall. 

Upon noting this, Billy’s fingers curled back up, like the legs of a dying spider, clenching so tight the knuckles went white – a contrast to the shock of pink the rest of his skin had turned. Mottled magenta, like last night, traipsing through the cold with Maxine on his back. Billy saw the checkout slip from his old middle school amongst the sodden remains. His hand twitched. Twitched again. 

He reached up with both arms, and slammed the trunk shut with an angry crash of metal on metal. He felt it in his stomach, reverberating. The sound of it echoed in the otherwise quiet neighborhood, filled only with the sound of rain spattering on pavement, dripping off of the eaves of roofs, gathering and rushing down the street gutters. He felt dizzy one moment, thought he might throw up in the next. 

He thought of the wallet. He thought of the way his Dad asked who Steven Harrington was. He thought of earlier that night – in the arcade, at the bowling alley – and all of that felt like a dream, all of it. Now, it felt like he’d finally woken up. Because this was real life, and this was reality, and this was what he had been dreading coming home to all day, all of last night. This wasn’t maybe exactly what he had expected – but it certainly ran in the same vein of awful. 

Billy had ran. And Billy never ran. Billy was a faggot. He couldn’t seem to stop that, either. Hell, he never had the balls for that kind of shit, he supposed, and maybe it just seemed easier to take it, because what kind of options did he have? But he had known he’d needed to get Maxine out of there, and now Susan was home, and Susan was in the house with Maxine, probably drying her hair with a towel and pressing a kiss against her bruised forehead that Neil had left there. 

He thought maybe he was supposed to be upset. But he wasn’t. He thought maybe he was supposed to be sad. But he wasn’t. He knew that he should instead, probably, just be angry – because he was _always_ angry. Those other emotions were strangers to him, like usual. But no. No, he didn’t feel angry, either. He felt this sort of numbness. Just felt…nothing. 

The books were gone – the books he’s had since his mom. Some, since even before his mom…well. Some she’d given him. But that one, the most important, that had sort of – sort of gotten him through it, through what was happening, that it wasn’t just him, that maybe – maybe there was a reason behind why he was the way he was, that maybe it had been Frankenstein that was the monster, not the creature itself, well…it had…it had…Billy swallowed down the word ‘helped.’ 

Because Frankenstein, he always won. People always took his side.

Billy couldn’t feel anything. He stared, standing in the icy spring downpour of Indiana, at the front porch and the rosy glow of the porch light, at the sun room, at the yellow door beyond. He caught the flutter of Susan’s flowered curtains – the door opened, and Maxine stepped out onto the sun porch, screened in and protected from the rain. She called out to him, but he couldn’t really hear her over the rain. 

Prolly calling for him to come inside. When Billy swallowed, his throat was so tight he could scarcely breathe, could hardly get the spit down. He trudged up the walk, leaving a few inches of water in Lenore’s trunk, unable to bring himself to care, though he knew he should – he just couldn’t look into that gaping maw anymore. He swung the door open. 

“What are you doing out there? You’re soaked, Billy.” Maxine scowled up at him. “You look…really weird. Are you okay?”

“’m fine.” Billy said, lips numb. Heart numb.

“Well come inside – it’s cold. I think the coast is clear.” Maxine reached out to tug on his hand, which now hung loose at his side. Billy shook her off. 

“Don’t touch me.” He snapped. 

She frowned up at him, eyes flashing blue, with a tightness around her mouth that he couldn’t identify, and for a second, he thought she might climb up onto her high horse and get bitchy – but christ, he didn’t care about that either. He glanced up at the door with the three, amber hued windows that were stacked across the sunshine, reinforced door. He was probably a dead man. But he just didn’t care. 

He followed Maxine inside, legs dragging like cement. 

Susan was sitting at the kitchen table, her head resting against one of her hands, a pastel scarf still wrapped around her curls to protect them from the rain, her I Love Lucy housewifey skirt swept off to the side. Her shoes were left by the door, and she was only in her stockinged feet on the tile. 

She gazed up at Billy with pale blue eyes, so pale they almost seemed see through sometimes – this washed out, robins egg blue that almost always seemed tired. Maybe that was why she’d gone away for the week – to catch up on her rest. To get away from his pops, with all their fighting? Who knew. 

“Billy.” Susan said, and her voice sounded as tired as her eyes looked – but she didn’t seem so mad now, not as mad as she was when she waltzed into that bowling alley, nor during the long, intense silence on the way home.

“Susan.” Billy mimicked her, but hell, he didn’t even feel sarcastic. 

He felt a crackle of static electricity wash over him as he inspected what Susan called the ‘sitting’ room for his old man, leading up to the living room with the television set and sofa – with the kitchen beyond. It felt like the heavy ozone of the storm outside was trapped inside of the Hargrove household, and it made his chest twist up tight, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 

“Billy. Now Billy. I know there are two sides, two sides to every story – “ Susan started.

Billy snorted. This was gonna be rich. He rubbed a hand over his face, pewter ring glinting, like ice against his knuckle. 

“Yeah, Susan, and what’s the other side of it?” 

Susan glanced at Maxine, her pretty pink painted lips tugging down at the corners. “Maxy-girl, please go to your room.” 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me! There’s no way I’m going to my room right now, mom. I need to talk to you.”

“Yes, well I have something I need to discuss with Billy, and I am asking you to go to your room, young lady.”

Billy stood dripping on the carpet of the living room – where he could see into the kitchen. It was a steady sound. Drip-a-drip. Rain was pounding on the roof, and there were still shattered seashells scattered all over the sitting room floor – untouched, with those big hunks of broken glass. He didn’t move. Uncharacteristically silent. Eyes flicking around at shadows. Where was his dad?

“But Mom.” Maxine huffed out a huge breath. “Just _listen_ to me, okay?”

“Maxine, look at your face. Look at you! I’m gone, I’m gone for one week, and this happens – “ Susan started, spreading her hand out wide – gesturing towards Billy.

“That’s what I want to talk to you about!” Maxine cried, standing in the kitchen like some kind of a little red headed beacon.

Billy thought of last night, the way he’d told her not to tell – you never told, that was the rule – just made shit worse. And she’d said she wanted to tell her ma, and he’d told her, you know what, fuckin’ go for it – see what happens. See if he cared. He didn’t have much hope for it, honestly. But who knew – maybe if she knew that Maxine had gotten it too, maybe…maybe it’d end up different. Billy’s mouth lowered as the rest of his face remained perfectly still, only his eyes moving in his head as he tracked Maxine’s movement as she approached the kitchen table.

He carefully walked farther into the room past his bench press, leaving wet tracks behind him.

“Billy, please go – go dry up.” Susan waved him back to his room. “You’re dripping all over the place, you’ll catch your death.”

Billy’s mouth twitched and he nodded, swallowing a lump in his throat as he glanced down once at Maxine. He ducked back into the hall, towards his room – saw that his old man’s door was closed at the end of the hall. Truck outside. 

He had to be in there. Billy listened through the door as he got dressed – the walls were thin as paper here, and it wasn’t exactly hard.  
Billy went to his half assed dresser, digging out an old Metallica shirt, and pulled a dirty towel from the hamper to scrub it over his long wet locks. Patted his rough, scratchy face – half stubble. Inhaled the scent of mildew. He winced as he tried to pull the soaked tank top over his head – lifting his arms was the worst part of it – but managed to worm his way into the band tee without too much trouble. He slid into a pair of grey sweats that hung loose on his hips, pulling the drawstring tighter.

“Now Maxine, I am going to talk to Billy and I fully expect you to – “

“ _No,_ mom. Look I know we shouldn’t have left and I wasn’t supposed to be gone – “

“What were you thinking, running away like that? What could have possibly been going on inside of your head? After what happened?”

Billy sidled back out of the room, dredging himself back to the kitchen, jaw ticing – he’d just wanted to keep himself in his room, but without a lock, it didn’t do much good. And he couldn’t run away again. Probably shouldn’t have in the first place, if he knew what was good for him.

“Maxine, just – just go.” Susan waved Maxine off.

“But just let me explain – “

But Susan wasn’t listening. Doing that thing adults did with kids, when they thought they was right, so they didn’t listen to them ‘cause they were only children. Maxine puffed out her cheeks in livid fury and stormed out of the kitchen, stomping her feet like a brat – but Billy knew, just knew, that she’d be doing the same thing he had been – listening from her room.

“Have a seat, Billy.” Susan sighed. She looked exhausted, deep lines running along her cheeks where her mouth had grown tight, the faint crows feet at her eyes growing more pronounced with stress.

Billy slid into the metal legged kitchen chair, arms folded over his chest like some kind of a shield, like a barrier, watching Susan through dark eyes, brows lowered in suspicion. Where was his old man? He thought again, and again. Where? Where?

“Now – now Billy, I, I told your father that I wanted to speak with you first. You know what…what kind of moods he can get in. And you know we have a, a policy – about our children.”

Yeah, yeah Billy knew. They both disciplined their own blood how they saw fit. Didn’t step on the others toes. Billy just nodded, sneering in the back of his mind – he figured that’d kind of gone out the window the other night once his old man gone all black ‘n blue on Maxine’s face. 

“Well, I just wanted to be able to talk to you. I want to be able to understand what happened.”

Susan smoothed her hands over the lace doiley thing that was in the middle of the table, the one she had crocheted, looking up at him from beneath those pale ginger lashes. Her freckles stood out on pale cheeks.

“You can’t be – you can’t be so _violent_ Billy. I thought – I thought that we were doing the right thing. By moving here.” Susan sighed, worrying at the doiley, not looking at him anymore. 

She was studying the table. Billy looked up at the ceiling, his legs spread wide as he leaned back in the chair. Lowered his arms so that he could clench his fists together, hidden beneath the table, ‘till his bones creaked.

“An what? I was ‘violent?’” He asked. He knew the answer, suddenly. It came to him in a rush, what his pops must have said – his excuse. Something cold settled into Billy’s bones, an April frost.

“I can’t abide by it, Billy. I – I stood by, before, I brought you home from school when your father couldn’t, when you got into those fights. I tried to understand. I, I want to be able to help you. Want us to, to be a family.”  
Billy almost choked on that one. Yeah. Some family. He blinked away a sharp feeling in his eyes, like glass shards, kept staring at the ceiling. 

“Uh-huh.” He said. He had so much to say, obviously.

“But, but hitting – hitting your _sister_ \- I knew that you two weren’t getting along, I knew that, but there’s no _excuse_ Billy. There’s no _excuse_. She’s younger than you, she’s only a little girl.” Susan’s voice wavered, like she was about to cry. “And not only that, but lashing out at your _father_ like that – “

Billy zeroed in on her face, nostrils flaring wide, and his throat clenched so hard that it hurt. She – he – she really thought that Billy had - ?

“And your father, he told me, he told me about that _boy_ and – “ 

“I didn’t hit _anyone_.” Billy snapped, reached out to grip the table leg – gripped it so hard it hurt. Brought him back to himself a little. Well, he hadn't hit anyone THIS time. That was probably part of the problem.

Billy tried to shake off the chill that wasn’t from the cold. He wasn’t his dad. He wasn’t. He would never hit Maxine. _Never_. The look that she gave him – that look. Billy couldn’t describe that look. That was a look that said he was crying _wolf_. Like he’d thrown people around enough times that now that he was saying he HADN’T done it, nobody would believe him – certainly not Susan, apparently. 

“I’d _never_ hit her.” Billy felt like he’d been electrocuted in his seat. 

Maxine rushed out like some holy tornado from hell, hair frizzing up in her face, her green sports jacket on – zipped all the way up to her chin, with new pajama bottoms and bare feet with painted blue toes – left over from spending the day at Chief Hopper’s with Janie.

“MOM!” Maxine gasped. “OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD BILLY DIDN’T HIT ME! His friggin’ dad did! He’s a total psycho!”

“Maxine!” Susan held up a pleading hand, and there were tears on her lashes now. “Now listen, I know you want to defend your brother, but that is no reason to make that kind of an accusation towards Neil – now I, I’m just trying to understand, and I said, I said that I _know_ there are two sides to every story. I just want to know what happened – “

“But you won’t even let me talk! You aren’t even LISTENING! I’m not just defending him! Yeah he’s a jerk sometimes, well okay a lot of the time, but he hasn’t ever hit me – just his dad did! And, and he hits Billy too! He’s a _bad man_!” Maxine let out a gush of hot air, like a hot air balloon attempting to release steam.

“Now Maxine, that is very serious – this is very serious – you can’t say these things about adults just because you may not like them, I know that you’re not the biggest fan of Neil, but he loves you, and he’s trying to be a good father – “

“He’s NOT my father, he’s not my dad! He shouldn’t even be Billy’s dad! Billy, Billy said that you – that you knew. That you knew Neil hit him. But you didn’t. Right? You didn’t know. Right?”

Susan folded her manicured nails very carefully on the table, studying them. 

“You know the rules, Maxine – with our own children, we – “ she whispered.

Maxine was quiet for a long minute. Staring at her mom like maybe she’d never seen her before.

“You – you _knew_.” Maxine’s voice came out hoarse. 

A peculiar look crossed over her freckled face. And maybe it was the look of losing childhood, Billy almost thought – that realization of how the world worked, and that you couldn’t entirely trust adults – that they could be bad people, too. 

That moment you lost the blind trust. For Billy, that had come at a much younger age. That expression was sudden, and it was fast, and it was gone as quickly as it came.

“It’s besides the point. You’ve been lying so much this last year, young lady. You’ve lied to me. You’ve lied to Neil. But look at your poor face. Sneaking out at all hours, making up excuses, what am I supposed to think? And Neil, he certainly didn’t do that to himself.” Susan sighed.

What? Do what to himself? 

“Do what to himself?” Maxine burst out, echoing Billy’s thoughts. “Become a total asshole?!”

“Maxine, I just, I told you to wait in your room.” Susan snapped – she was starting to get frustrated. Starting to get more _tired_. “Please just do as I ask, and wait while I talk to Billy.”

“No way! I’m not lying! This isn’t a lie, the only one lying is Neil if he told you that Billy did this – Billy – Billy took me, Billy got us out of here and – you should be THANKING him!“

“That’s another part of the problem. You are not to be taking my daughter out in the middle of the night, William. This, this is supposed to be our fresh start, and Billy – dear – I want you to know that I feel like you’re my own son, I do, but maybe you just need some _help_. Please just tell me what happened so I know what's going on?”

Billy’s insides were frigid and he was just sort of staring at Susan, even as she went back and forth with Maxine, and it was kind of like she was one of the adults on Peanuts, where all he could hear out of her mouth was white noise – even if he could see her talking, just ‘wah-wah-wah’ came out. 

Kinda felt like the walls was coming down around him, and he was freezing up on the inside – and he couldn’t get out, he couldn’t move really, and he was actually being _blamed_ for this, for something he didn’t even do, and what was this shit about his old man? What about him? He’d been fine last night when they left.

It was slowly occuring to him that this was how he usually felt when he started getting towards one of those weird, weird episodes – the ones where he felt like he was underwater. Like he couldn’t breathe or function and like he was sinking into a fucking hole. But usually, usually that was after his dad had popped him a few – and he hadn’t even been _hurt_. Right? 

His ears started ringing, breath coming faster. He stared. Things slid in and out of focus.

“I just told you what happened mom!” Maxine gasped. “His dad is a total DICK – “ 

“LANGUAGE MAXINE! Another word like that, and you are grounded.”

“ – and he thought I was Billy, and he _hit_ me, and then when he was hurting Billy like again, when I tried to stop him, he pushed me!”

Susan held up a hand towards Maxine for silence, watching Billy with big, watery blue eyes. Like the sea.

“Billy - _please_ talk to me.” Susan whispered. “Neil, before, you know, he wanted to do the boot camp – he wanted you to join the military, when you were old enough, thought that it might, might help, like he did when he was young – and I didn’t think it was for the best, but now I just don’t – “

“You’ve gotta be _kidding_ me!” Maxine screeched like a little hellcat.

“ – that’s not his decision, dear, but he thinks – I don’t – “ Susan’s tears finally spilled over, dripping down her cheeks one at a time. “He thinks it’s for the best.” 

The door in the back of the house slammed open. Like his dad had been timing it. Billy stood up so fast the metal legged chair skittered back across the kitchen floor, falling down, chest rising and falling fast. Bright blue eyes jerked up to the hallway that led to the bedrooms, and he found himself taking a few unconscious steps backwards, towards the kitchen counter. 

That had been part of the bargain – when they moved out here. It had been between sending Billy to some kind of training boot camp bullshit, or it was moving – Susan had actually been able to convince Neil that she wanted to move to some sleepy little suburb farther out east. 

She’d managed to make it so Billy could stay with them. But she’d gotten more and more wary of him with time – the more fights he got in – the angrier he got - she may not have been as vocal about it as his old man, but he knew she disapproved of him and the ‘boys’ thing, but he knew she also thought it was a phase – she’d said she thought he’d outgrow it, given time. She’d said that. Several times. 

“I didn’t do _shit_ , alright?” Billy burst out – could hear footfalls down the hall. His ears were ringing so loud. “This ain’t my fault, I didn’t – she didn’t – “

Then his dad was there at the end of the hall, stepping into the kitchen, and he looked perfectly calm – unriled, in a plain white cotton tee and a pair of black slacks – like maybe he’d taken off his suit jacket and button up shirt, and this was what had been underneath. And he definitely had a broken fucking nose. Yeah. It was absolutely broken. With tape on it and everything. 

Looked nasty. Looked like it _hurt._

Billy gaped at him as Neil looked back at him, those dead sharks eyes flashing.

“What kind of language is that to use with your step mother, boy?” Neil asked him.

Billy gaped like a fish, one about to be devoured, swallowed a chunk of air, couldn’t get the words out.  
“What the – what happened to your face?” Billy finally spat, coughing on air.

Maxine was staring too – her mouth hanging open in an almost comical fashion. Upon his dad’s grand entrance, as per his usual, Maxine had scurried over towards Billy, her feet set wide as she stood at his side – and how fucking wild was that. His dad on one side of the table, Susan in the middle, still seated, and Billy and Maxine on the other side – together. 

Somehow, somehow, that made this entire shitshow a little easier to swallow – the carnival from hell that never ended, really– just that small, small thing. Having Maxine standing at his side. _Defending_ him. Billy broke eye contact with his old man to glance down at the fiery little red headed bitch at his side, and he felt something warm in his chest – even as his bones remained cold as ice. 

Nobody defended Billy. But she was.

And she was standing with him – which made it easier for him to _stay_ standing. 

“Billy – Billy didn’t do that. I dunno who did, but you deserved it!” Maxine spat. “You’re the liar, jackass!” 

Billy’s throat was so tight he couldn’t say shit, until he finally could.  
Neil glanced down at her, his eyes narrowing.

“Maxine. Stop.” Billy said, trying to keep the pleading out of his voice. She’d only make things worse. Not for herself, but probably for Billy. Running her mouth like that. Not that he didn’t appreciate it, but it would absolutely make things worse. 

“Maxine!” Susan hissed at her.

“That’s no way to speak to your elders, Maxine. Kids these days. No respect.” He said. “And you know exactly what he did.” His pops eyes lifted up to Billy’s. “Nice of you to finally bring your sister back, William. Let’s have a talk – it’s overdue. Then you can clean up the mess you made.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Shego for helping me Beta-read - you were seriously a life saver <3 you're the best!


	23. Just pretend to be my date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monday, April 15th, 1985

“Do you have any idea what I had to do last week?” Nance asked him.

Steve glanced up from where he was pulling his green and white Tigers binder out of his locker.

“Nope. What’d you have to do?” 

“I had to babysit Mike and The Party while they had one of their stupid Atari parties, which somehow turned into a debate on physics and Pong by the way, and oh my god it was just the worst. You got off easy on just bowling. And mom has totally been up Mike’s ass because – “ 

“Hey _Princess!_ ” Carol called real sweet from close by – hovering close to the guy’s restroom, where her other half was clearly otherwise occupied. “Heard you were part of the Prom committee? That true?” 

Nancy stopped mid sentence, grip tightening on her trapper keeper where she braced it against her chest. Those pale blue eyes flashed in irritation in Carol’s direction, her lips pulling into something between annoyance and a pout. Steve had used to think that look was real cute on her – he’d been good at getting her to make that face, he guessed. 

“Yeah, Carol.” Nancy tilted her head, her short ponytail swinging – she’d been wearing her hair up like that way more this year than Steve ever remembered. It made her look like a lot more of a badass, and a lot more like she’d shoot you in the face if you looked at her cross eyed. He knew – he’d been at the end of that barrel once. Literally. “Why. Did you wanna buy tickets?” Nancy’s voice was all steel.

“Hey! They accepted you on the committee?” Steve asked, brows raising just a bit. It was just a little…abnormal, for a Junior to be on prom committee, but she’d told him about applying a while back, but not about being accepted. Steve guessed they hadn’t been talking as much lately.

Nance directed a little half smile at him. “Maybe.”

“Oh I heard she’s their little ring-leader.” Carol smiled, smacking her gum as she sashayed up to them. “The Princess doesn’t want her crown? Aw.” None of the organizers could win royalty, but neither could juniors for that matter.

“Look, just back off, Carol – Nance is good at that organization dance stuff.” 

“I heard she’s just doing it so she can get her hubby the gig of taking pictures of people. I bet he’ll keep copies for himself, you know, cut the heads off of people or scratch out eyes or – “

“Look that was ONE time Carol, can’t you just let it go?” Nancy huffed, eyes narrowing in that dangerous way.

It pained Steve, just a little, to defend Jonathan – particularly over this subject, the one he’d dropped an expensive ass-camera on asphalt and had to replace as a Christmas present from ‘Nancy.’ Yeah, it had been his fuck up, but Carol had been there – she’d KNOWN that Steve had been pissed off about it. 

“UH I was in those photos too, even if I wasn’t half naked like some people.” Carol rolled her eyes. “So yeah. Maybe I get to be a LITTLE concerned if Freak-Byers is going to be – “

“It’s just prom photos.” Steve interrupted her. “Why would he even WANT to keep those. Maybe just pull the stick out of your ass and – “

“ You’re the one that’s had a stick up your ass all year, Stevie. What, now you have a hard on for his creepy photos now that you guys are in a threesome or whatever?” Carol cracked her gum, mouth pinched. “Yeah there’s a reason why my family doesn’t get our photos developed over at that drive-up place he works at. Tommy and I have better things to do anyway than go to some lame school dance. Have fun giving that stalker wank material.” Carol winked at Steve and walked off as Tommy finally came out of the men’s room, calling out to her. Slinging an arm around her shoulders.

Nancy was so red in the face Steve thought she might explode, a vein ticking at her temple. 

“You just, can’t worry about the shit those guys say. She’s just trying to make you mad.”

“I’m not _MAD._ ” Nancy snapped, mad. 

“Yeah, okay, right.” Steve’s lips curled half into a smile as he rubbed at one eyebrow, adding a textbook to the binder and closing his locker with a bang.

Hawkins student body was all bustling around them, opening lockers, locking them back up, leaning against them, rocking with laughter, squealing screams, with rumbling chatter echoing off the tile floors.

“I mean it was just, just that once and it’s like nobody can let it go. He was just…looking for his brother, and….he explained it to me. He did. It was just about, you know, messages – about what people aren’t saying, or - ”

“It’s just high school, Nance. Nobody’s gonna remember or care after it’s over. You don’t have to explain it to me. ”

“Yeah well you don’t have another year stuck here.” 

That was true. He didn’t. He was gonna get out of his hellhole school, and…well, he didn’t know what was after that. He had no idea really. It wasn’t terrifying. Not at all.

Nance seemed to read the flash of indecision, or flash of _something_ that washed over Steve’s face. He hated how she could just read him like that, like a book, how she always could with those big soft eyes of hers – just see through his soul or whatever. Even if she hadn’t been able to see the love there. Maybe she had and just hadn’t cared. 

“Have you heard back from any of the schools yet?” She asked, reading his fucking mind. 

“Nope.” Steve said. He had, though. 

“Weird…usually they should be back to you by now. I mean we worked on those essays forever, and I thought…”

Steve shrugged, wincing a little as he slid his shades off of his head and over his eyes. “It’s really not a big deal.”

“Well has your dad said anything more about you going to work for him, or?”

“Aw Nance can we just…not…talk about this? Right now? I’ve really got to get to Bio, and Mr. Abrams is a total asshole.” 

“Oh. Um, yeah. He really is, huh? Thank god I had him last year.” 

Steve didn’t really want to think about the fact that he was in a class Nance had taken in her Sophomore year. 

“But hey, look, talking about prom – I wanted to talk to you about that – “ Nance started, just as the warning bell went off. 

People in the hall started to scatter towards their respective periods, and Steve ducked away, giving a short wave to Nance. “Yeah uh sure, sure okay, we’ll talk later. See ya Nance.” 

Jesus Christ, yeah, seriously, he didn’t want to talk with his ex about next year, about college, about a job, about fucking PROM – no thanks. It really irritated the shit out of Steve when she did this. And he knew he shouldn’t be annoyed, because he knew what she was doing – she was trying to make it normal. And she was trying to make it like it used to be between them, when they used to be able to talk about this kinda shit.

But you know, even back then – even when they HAD been dating, it had never felt NORMAL to Steve. It had always felt awkward, somehow, like when they did talk about these serious subjects that you should probably be able to talk to your girlfriend about – well, he’d always felt like she was somehow judging him. Internally. And with her eyes. Yeah, he could definitely see it behind her eyes, the way her lashes lowered, and she got this voice like she had something stuck in the back of her throat. 

Acting like she was being so supportive, even if she…wasn’t. But he’d always loved her so much, it was just - blinding. He hadn’t seen it, or wanted to see it, maybe. 

And now she wanted to talk about PROM. Was it something about the organization committee? He doubted she’d be serving punch at prom, not like she had at the Snowball.

He thought it was kind of hilarious that a junior was on the organization committee, but he figured she’d been pretty vocal about it. She was good at that. And honestly they couldn’t have found a better, more detailed, or more organized person.  
Also, not a lot of people exactly wanted to PLAN for prom. 

But literally the last person he wanted to talk about his senior prom with was Nance. He’d had, well, he didn’t know. Fantasies? Maybe, about how they would have gone together and would have been crowned King and Queen. Last year, before everything, it had been pretty common that people thought that ‘King Steve’ of course had to be Prom King. He was royalty, after all, and he needed his crown – according to when Tommy had made fun of him about it, anyways. 

But even if he thought the idea of an actual crown was stupid, the entire vision of him and Nancy swaying on the dance floor inside the circle of everyone gathered together, watching…yeah. Yeah he’d wanted that. 

So now, he couldn’t just…talk to her about it. He wondered if she was gonna grill him about who he was going with, who he had asked? Or worse, to go on a double date. She always needed the details about his life and everything that was going on – which really, was a thing that friends did. Steve thought, briefly, about what Billy had said – about how fucking weird it was that Steve was still friends with Nancy. Not only Nancy, but her new boyfriend, as well. Billy was always happy to remind him, apparently, even as Steve was trying so hard to make it WORK.

He really did need to ask someone. Prom was edging dangerously close, and he hadn’t really even given it much thought – or more like, he’d been ignoring it. On purpose. 

Steve’s gaze skittered around at the gaggles of classmates that were walking around him, either with or against the flow, chocolate dark eyes flicking from girl to girl as they bustled by. Tammy Anderson with her hair in a side ponytail and a tye-dye scrunchie, Pammie Johnson in a blouse that hung off of her shoulders and neon green leggings, Natalie Rose Wayland with the biggest boobs that she usually got in trouble for wearing shirts too low-cut, and apparently even the teachers couldn’t handle it…

Steve had no idea. Prom was gonna be in a few weeks, now that spring break was over, and it was suddenly so close. He hadn’t even really thought about it – maybe he’d been trying NOT to think about it, if he was honest with himself. 

He should probably just get it over with. Ask some random chick and put himself out of his misery. He didn’t exactly want to go stag, especially with Nancy being there with Jonathan. He didn’t especially care that going alone was basically a kind of social suicide – he rather thought he was completely past caring about that kind of shit, or whatever social totem pole there was. But that was the thing he couldn’t do – be there dateless while he watched Jonathan living the fantasy that Steve himself had had less than a year ago. That would just be…fucking miserable.

He supposed he didn’t have to go, but he also knew that it was important to him – he’d been looking forward to it for most of his high school career, and he hadn’t been able to go to the Junior prom last year because he’d had strep throat. He and Nance had been supposed to go last spring, and of course, it was just his fucking luck.

Steve got to Bio and settled into his seat, shoving his glasses up into his hair, and glancing up at the board where there were chalk drawings of cells and their layout. Arranging his binder and textbook on his desk, Steve pulled his green and gold enamel pen out of his bag and settled back, knee bouncing as Mr. Abrams started class – the bell announcing the start of class. 

Steve covertly thought about the girls in the class and who he might go about asking – he knew he shouldn’t actually have TROUBLE getting a date, even if he’d become a bit of a social leper or whatever (that gem was from Tommy) – he knew he still looked good. He could practically be Tom Cruise. The second he asked, the girl would probably be all over it. Right? All over him. So he just had to grow a fucking pair and do it. It didn’t really matter WHO at this point.

Halfway through class, the prom committee passed out papers for everyone to write who they wanted for royalty – the royal court, the king and queen. Whoever got the most tallys were added to a voting roster for people to vote. Of course the rules were you couldn't write yourself down (not that it stopped some people,) and they had to be part of the Senior class. 

Steve chewed on his lip and stared at the slip of paper, scribbling absently with his pen on the edge of the paper as he tried to think of who he didn't kind of hate at the school. Who probably really wanted it, and who might deserve it. It's not like the people even had to be dating, or going together. 

After a long minute, he wrote down Maddie Pierce’s name for queen, and for king, he wrote down Sam Guthrie, a guy on his basketball team, as well as a few chicks and guys that he liked and had known since Elementary school. He folded it up and passed it up with everyone else, and the teacher explained that in a few days they’d get the ballots to vote. 

The theme this year was Cloud Nine. Banners were strung up in the halls, hand painted to look like baby blue clouds with stars, and the huge hand painted words ‘Hawkins High Prom – Cloud Nine – Class of 1985’ in Tigers green. The hall walls were also pasted with posters that Steve knew for a fact Nancy had talked with Will about were taped up on the walls, with at least one in each classroom by the door. 

Steve drummed his fingers against the desk as people whispered at each other about who they were writing down for royalty options. Steve wondered who would be on the official ballot to vote for. 

The day passed in a blur, and it fucking sucked being back at school after the week long break, and Steve felt the end of the year breathing down the back of his neck – finals creeping up that he absolutely needed to ace in order to graduate, and then after that, this great, black, gaping abyss of ‘unknown’ that frankly…terrified Steve if he thought about it. And he couldn’t even wrap his mind around the possibility of summer school.

He knew that he had the cushion, a safety cushion, to fall back on of just going to work for his dad. Benefits, good pay, all that good adult-life shit. But he had this sneaking suspicion that if he went to work for his dad, he’d never get out – he’d be stuck there until he died. He’d end up just like his dad, and that was the last thing he wanted.

He guessed he’d always thought that was what was meant for him – settle down with the perfect girl, she popped out a couple kids, they’d go to the country club on holidays like his parents did when they were in town, and vacation in The Alps, go skiing in Switzerland for New Years. 

He’d have a good steady job and Nance could have stayed at home, and…Steve’s mouth twitched as he stopped mid-thought, because Nance didn’t fit into that picture anymore. 

And it was kinda funny because maybe that was it…she was like…like a supporting Jenga piece that had been taken from the tower of his future, and the whole thing had come falling down. 

Without her in his life, why did he need to have the good pay, the good benefits? 

Did he technically have to go to the Alps for New year?

Did he need to go to the Tree Glen Country Club for Thanksgiving, like when his parents were actually in town? 

Steve...Steve HATED going to the Country Club on Thanksgiving. It was all schmoozing and rubbing elbows and people asking him ‘how’s school?’ and ‘so do you have a girlfriend?’ and ‘what university will you be attending, Steven?’

This past Thanksgiving, after their second run in with The Upside Down, Steve had had Thanksgiving at Mrs.Byer's house. And it had been...different. It had been...great. Different than the Country Club, and also, different than when he’d spent Thanksgiving with The Wheelers. 

Maybe he wanted more Thanksgivings like that -– and if he hadn’t broken up with Nancy, he’d still be at the Wheelers. Or taking her to the Country Club. 

So maybe he…could do something different, for a job. For his LIFE. And wasn’t that interesting? 

 

 

After the last bell of the day, Steve went to stop by the bathroom to check his hair before practice – the team was all running on fumes and nerves, because the last game of the year was next week with Northwestern, and tensions were running high. 

And Steve? Steve definitely wasn’t immune to it either – he was fucking stressed out, and he knew his game had been off, well, most of the year. Coach hadn’t stopped screaming at him about it. But he kind of thought that, maybe, with Billy and him getting along a little better than normal that it might change. Like when he’d been tossing baskets at The Palace Arcade with Billy, it’d been so laid back, and Steve’d made more shots. Callused fingers at his elbows. Guiding him.

Steve almost made it into the guy’s room. He was so close. Before he suddenly had a rush of perfume at his back, a small hand tucking into his, and a familiar body was bustling him into the restroom with a small laugh. And it was like he’d done it a hundred times, like he could do it in his sleep, because he HAD done it before. Many times. Nance bumped him back against the white tile, and it was like their spots had been reversed. Where before it was in the girls bathroom, where he’d been the one hedging her up against the tile. Now she stood before him – his back against the cool wall. 

Steve blinked down at her, with a ‘what the hell are you doing?’ look – the door still swinging from their entrance. 

“What’re you doing, Nance?” 

“I told you we needed to talk!” 

She looked up at him, head tilting, with those cute little crinkles around her eyes. All dimples as she made this closed mouth smile that once upon a time made his heart flutter.

“But…why are we doing it here?” 

“Well we’ve talked in here before!” 

“I mean yeah but that was in the girl’s bathroom.”

“Oh so what, we can talk in the girls bathroom but not here?” She laughed.

Steve’s gaze roved around the restroom, and it was silent, save for a leaky faucet – a few of the stall doors were closed, but he didn’t think anyone else was in there. He sighed – when she created these parallels to the past, it gave him a huge fucking headache sometimes. It just made something sharp turn in his chest, and it was something he didn’t want to feel anymore, but when she pulled – this – whatever this was, like, like when she touched him on the arm sometimes, or when she looked at him in just the right way, it was this reminder of everything they’d lost. And he’d been trying to fucking deal with it, and when she did this, it made it that much harder to do.

“No it’s not that, but schools not even going right now, we could talk outside – “ 

“But you have practice soon, right? I promise it’ll be fast.”

Steve leaned heavier against the tile splash of the wall, sliding his arms into a crossed position at his chest as he eased himself into a comfortable position. A brow raised with a light smile as he decided to entertain whatever she had to say. 

“Alright, shoot.” 

“Well. Okay, so, just hear me out.” Nance started – that couldn’t be good. That wasn’t a good start to anything.

“This already sounds promising.” 

“I promise it’s not a big deal – “

“You said it’s about prom?” 

“Yeah. Yeah. Um.” Nancy smoothed a strand of hair out of her face where it had wriggled free of her short ponytail, before she raised her eyes back up to him. Like she was gathering her courage. Or nervous.

“So I was wondering – well. Have you asked anyone to prom yet?”

Steve stared at her. If he was any less sane, this would feel an awful lot like she was going to ask _him_ to prom. 

Steve narrowed his dark eyes at her, shifting on his Nike’s as she hovered in front of him, rocking back onto the heels of her flats.

“No, I haven’t…” Steve started slowly.

“Oh! Oh. Well. That’s. Oh. Well, okay, so I have a – a proposition for you. I mean, if, if you don’t have any plans? To ask someone?” 

Steve’s stomach pitched into some uncomfortable place, somewhere below his feet, and well below the floor itself. 

“…I mean I was thinking about it, but – “ He started, but she seemed to take that as some kind of permission and barreled forward, cutting him off. 

“Well if you, if you didn’t, I was thinking we could go together.” She burst out.

Steve stared.

“AS FRIENDS. As friends. Go to prom, together, as _friends_.” She immediately clarified.

Steve stared more. Stuttered, “…w-what? Uh. But. _Why?_ You and Jonathan…”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s why, see – well, Jonathan has to work. And he thought that he’d be able to get the time off of work at the Fotomat, but I guess the other guy Shawn just quit, and so now Jonathan is having to pick up the extra hours, and well, you know with his mom and the house…he wanted the hours and couldn’t, couldn’t say NO, and we, we always have next year, since we’re just juniors and - “ 

She started to ramble when she got nervous. Steve knew that, and she was already on a huge roll, so he held up a hand to slow her down. 

“Woah, wait, so – hang on back up, so he has to work, and you – “

“Well yeah! I mean we’re friends, you’re, you’re one of my best friends and I mean, TECHNICALLY we were supposed to go last year and you couldn’t and, I even bought a dress for it that I still haven’t worn and I think you still owed me a corsage…” She smiled up at him, so prettily, from beneath her fanned out lashes. 

Her lips were as pink as carnations, her eyes so luminous, especially this up close - they just drew him in. She smelled good, like that Baby Soft perfume she always wore. It fried his brain, turning him into a bumbling idiot. Steve wondered if she was doing it on purpose? Ripping his heart out and stepping on it? He wasn’t sure.

“So I just thought, if you didn’t have any one to go with – who better than a friend?”

“So he’s not even – taking pictures at the prom? Why didn’t you just say that to Carol earlier?”

“Steve, stop avoiding the question, that’s not the point – just, I was just…wondering if you’d want to. Just _pretend_ to be my date. Please?”

Steve hadn’t wanted to go alone. And apparently she didn’t either. But he also knew that she wouldn’t be able to just ask some regular dude, and apparently according to half the student population he was in a relationship with the two of them considering how he’d started hanging out with both Nance and Jonathan after their break up… and Jonathan probably thought he had nothing to worry about from Steve. They were FRIENDS. Jonathan knew she didn’t want Steve. They all knew that. Steve knew that. He did. But his brain was screaming ‘PROM.’ 

Steve swallowed hard as she gazed up at him with those big, imploring, expectant eyes – as soft and as brave as her heart, that heart that he’d do anything for, even if they weren’t together anymore. He was always doing that. Bending over backwards for her, even when he wasn’t getting laid, apparently. 

He didn’t want her to have to go alone, either.

Steve lowered his head slightly, his eyes sliding away from hers as he gave a single nod. Yeah. Yeah he’d do it. Couldn’t seem to say it though.

Nancy let out a little squeal of delight and got up on her tiptoes to peck his cheek.

“Steve, you really are the sweetest, you know. I knew you’d say yes. This will be so much fun! Just wait and see! We’ll have such a great time, and I’ll bring my Polaroid and we’ll get so many pictures, and you can see my dress from last spring. Don’t forget that you owe me a corsage, mister.” 

Steve thought maybe he might be dying, with spastic images that he’d formulated of them going to prom together snapping through his mind like those Polaroids, like there was some kind of a short in his brain. 

“Yeah. Yeah, it’ll be great.” He hoped he didn’t sound forced, but she didn’t seem to notice. Maybe he had to rethink that she’d always been able to read him like a book, because he felt like coughing up blood. 

“Awesome! Totally cool. Okay! We’ll totally make plans and maybe we can figure out a limo with some of the others. Oh and dinner! I’ll let you get to practice. Thanks again Steve!”

She let out another tiny excited noise, cute as hell, and she was gone – the bathroom door swinging behind her. 

Steve’s posture against the wall slumped, sliding just a little as he reached up to curl a hand up into his wave of hair where it fanned out just above his forehead. What the HELL had he just agreed to? Why couldn’t he just say NO? Stand up for himself? He wasn’t a pushover, he wasn’t weak, it wasn’t anything like that, he didn’t think. But it was like…like when she looked at him like that, he’d just bend over backwards for her, do anything. And he’d dreamed about going to prom with her, so many times, and…and…

“That was fucking pathetic.” 

Steve jumped against the wall, and possibly had a mini heart attack as he nearly slipped on the grimy bathroom floor, barely catching himself. Heart hammering. Thought he’d been alone. It had scared the fucking shit out of him, shadows lurking out of nowhere, and he had to blink rapidly to clear them. He was fine. He was okay. 

One of the doors of the rusting bathroom stalls swung open, banging against the cracked wall – Steve should have looked under the door, he supposed, but it had been so quiet. Billy Hargrove stood there, a sharpie in one hand, the cap clenched between his teeth in a wicked, sharp grin. He cackled around the plastic tube, his tongue slicking along the edge of it as he eyed Steve all blue bright judgment. 

Of course it had to be Billy. 

“Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me. Do you just make a habit of eavesdropping in bathroom stalls, or - ?” Steve frowned at him. 

They’d been getting along well – like, really well – at the arcade. At the bowling alley. Before Billy’d left, or more so been forced to leave. But that didn’t exactly mean that he appreciated Billy listening in on the conversation either.

“Well I wasn’t exactly taking a dump Harrington, but I was busy.” He flourished the sharpie between two fingers as he strutted towards the sink. “Not my fault you decided to have a ‘private conversation’ loud enough for me to hear.”

And he apparently couldn’t bring himself to announce his presence, either. But yeah. Clearly he’d been busy. 

Billy slid the sharpie into the cap, still clenched between his teeth – the two connected with a click, and Billy adjusted it to the other side of his mouth as he rinsed up his hands in the sink, watching Steve through the reflection in the mirror. Fidgeting with the perfect curl that coiled across his forehead, clicking his teeth on plastic.

“You seriously gonna step in for Joanie’s little boy freak, Byers? _‘Pretend date?’_ The fuck…?” Billy asked him around the clench of his jaw, the plastic of the sharpie, grinding his teeth against the cap. 

Steve wondered what he’d been writing in the stall. 

“I’m not stepping in for anyone.” Steve stood up straighter to sidle towards Billy at the line of sinks – some with cigarette butts stuffed into the drains, so they’d just overflow if you used them. Steve knew for a fact a good amount of them are left over from Billy – he was always in here smoking with Tommy between periods. Hell, that was Steve a few years ago. 

“I guess if she needs someone to go with, and I don’t have anyone that I was thinking of asking, it makes sense. To go with a _friend._ She’s always, coming up with solutions to shit, and – “ 

“I wouldn’t call that a solution.” Billy grunted, finally pulling the sharpie out of his mouth, the black cap slick with spit as he slid it into the back pocket of his too-tight jeans. “Dunno what the fuck I’d call that, but that’s the opposite of a ‘solution.’” 

“We were supposed to go together last year.”

“Yeah, I picked up on that. She ‘bought a dress.’ Real nice excuse. You were still dating then, dumbass.” Billy dried his hands on a paper towel, crumpled it into a ball and tossed it at the waste basket. “Doesn’t count now.”

Steve was washing his hands too. He didn’t know why. He just needed something to do with them, he guessed. He added way too much soap, spent too long lathering up. Less time watching Billy, although he could feel the other boy’s gaze burning into him. 

“You realize what she’s doing, don’t you?” Billy asked, and he had that mean tone, like a newly sharpened blade, that Steve had heard one too many times.

“She’s just trying to be friends. Friends go to dances together all the time, it’s not that weird, Hargrove.” Steve rolled his eyes.

“Now you’re just lying to yourself, Harrington.” Billy laughed at him, cackling as Steve started to dry his hands. Matched Billy by tossing a paper towel ball into the trash-can basket. Nothing but net.

It reminded him they really needed to get to practice, but they were lollygaging. Talking about things Steve didn’t want to even think about. He hated how Billy always made him THINK about it, when all Steve wanted to do was to pretend. Pretend that things were normal. And hell, it just figured, ‘cause wasn’t that how he’d ended up here in the first place? Because all he’d wanted to do was pretend that things were normal, and all Nancy had wanted was to face reality – to talk about it. The one thing Steve could never seem to do. 

“She’s keeping you in her back pocket. Like a back up. Keeping that door just a little bit cracked open for you. People don’t…shit, don’t you get it? People can’t be friends after they’ve fucked around. Not really. There’s always gonna be one person that still wants the other, and it never. Fucking. Works. Not ‘till you’ve been apart long enough that you don’t want her no more. Otherwise? Otherwise it’s just her keeping you on the hook.” 

Steve stared at him from beneath hooded lashes, and Billy had been pushing him before, since they’d started talking again – pushing him about Nancy, about still being friends, about still hanging out with her and Jonathan. And Steve, Steve didn’t know why Billy was even so _concerned_.

“Why does it even bother you? If I’m still friends with her?” Steve was genuinely curious.

“It doesn’t bother me.” Billy snapped, heading towards the door.

Steve pulled up the rear, grabbing his gym bag, considering they were both heading in the same direction. The gym. 

“She’s just using you. It’s pathetic. You’re always so, fucking…you’re such a…” As they headed into the deserted hallway, Billy’s jaw hung open for a moment, those blue eyes fluttering away as he seemed to be searching for the right words. Finally it came to him, lip curling in something like disgust. “ _bleeding heart_ or some shit, it just _pisses me off._ Like just – man the fuck up, Jesus. If Sinclair was pulling this bullshit with my step-sister I’d kick his goddamn ass. But even _Maxine_ wouldn’t let this shit slide, so what the hell are you doing?” 

_And what exactly did that say about Steve?_ was what Steve supposed Billy was trying to say. 

“I’m not a _bleeding heart_ or – or whatever. I just want to see her happy. I don’t even _like_ her like that anymore.” Loved her, just not in the same way.

It was…suddenly so _weird_. To be having this conversation with Billy of all people. But it was also…holy shit, it was kind of…nice. Because he hadn’t actually talked about this with anyone but maybe sort of with Dustin, and that, that obviously hadn’t gone over very well because he was just a stupid kid and he didn’t understand love. He’d never been in love. Hell, Steve was even trying to EXPLAIN it to him, and he still didn’t really get it. But he hadn’t talked about it with someone his own age, because, he had to face it, his only friends around his own age WERE Nancy and Jonathan – and he couldn’t exactly talk about that with _them._

And the more that time went on, the more that pain had started to subside – had turned into more of a dull ache, and Steve hoped that – eventually – it would simply subside. That one day he would just wake up and it wouldn’t be there anymore. But then it was when things like this happened – like when Nancy asked him to go with her to _prom_ that the wound behind his heart opened, edges vivid as a razor’s cut, and it just…hurt all over again. He didn’t know what the hell she was doing when she did that, though he could make all of the excuses he wanted to…but apparently to Billy it all seemed crystal clear. 

Steve looked down at Billy as they walked side by side down the hall, lined on either side by lockers, washed in the fluorescent lights from above. Steve threw his arm back so that he’d slung his gym bag over his shoulder as they walked, the other hand in his pocket. Billy walked alongside him, long legged and loose hipped, easy, like he had all the time in the world, like he _owned_ the world - one thumb tucked into his belt. 

“You seem to speak from _experience_.” 

He was done pushing back against Billy, and honestly, there seemed to be something personal to the way Billy reacted to Nancy’s and his relationship. Steve just didn’t know how.

Those electric blue eyes jolted to Steve, as if he’d been taken off guard by the sudden call out. Face going still. 

Steve thought of the way Neil Hargrove stood on his door stoop, screaming the word _‘faggot,’_ all spittle and bulging forehead veins. The way Steve was sure it had to be a lie, and the way he’d heard Becky moaning Billy’s name as he fucked her upstairs at the house party. 

“So who were you in love with?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> Thank you again to the lovely @Pan-Shego for helping me with Beta-reading this chapter, you're the best! <3


	24. Are you really going to leave without asking me the question you’ve been dying to ask me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monday, April 15th, 1985
> 
> ((This chapter has been updated, and everything pushed back by combining Pt. 1 and Pt. 2 of 'That's irrational' - sorry for the confusion! It was actually tripping me up that the chapter numbers didn't match the prompts. ))
> 
> Hey guys! Just a heads up there are a few instances in this chapter of non-physical abuse. Tread carefully, friends

Billy was swaying on his feet like a horse falling asleep. He was so fucking tired, which seemed to be a constant trend of his life. Sometimes he wondered what it might be like to wake up at a normal time, not at the ass crack of dawn, perhaps feeling actually refreshed, not bone-tired. Aching in places from the lumps in the mattress, or the way it sagged from being held up by fucking cinder blocks. From the constant threat of possibly getting pulled out of bed by his hair, or made to scrub down the already-clean bathroom at four AM because Neil was feeling like Billy wasn’t quite up to snuff. 

He knew that tonight, was going to be one of those nights. A sleepless one. One where if he woke up at all, he’d be dragging through the day. Maybe slam some nerds into trashcans on his way through school just to feel a little alive – not like a zombie. The trend indeed.

Maxine was asleep, he’d guessed. Susan too. Billy’d had to stay up – clean up the ‘mess’ _he_ made. He’d had to clean up the shattered shells from the floor. _His_ mess. He’d had to clean up the shards of thick glass from the broken jar. _His_ mess. He’d had to patch the holes in the wall, the ragged ones from his fist, still rimmed in pink from where his blood had spattered from split knuckles. Okay, _those_ really were _his_ mess, he guessed. He remembered the dust of drywall lining his broken skin, pink like frosting as it mixed with redredred blood. 

Yeah, it was a lot like that as he smeared the fresh plaster over the holes, cake frosting to hide the ugly, dark, gaping wounds he’d left in the wall instead of Maxine’s frightened, freckled little face. That stupid little face. He wished he could just hate her, like before. It was so much easier. 

But then he remembered how her fragile head had bounced off the wall, how she’d gone pale, sheet white. How she went loose as a ragdoll. And Billy scooped her up. Got her out of there. But now they were back, because where else was there to go? 

Billy was eighteen fucking years old. He could walk. He could run.

But with nowhere to go, what was he gonna do? Be some homeless fucking waste trying to bum rides back out West? Have truckers begging blow jobs for the next hundred miles? Fuck that bullshit. He’d find a different way. There had to be a way. 

He just needed time to think. He had a lot of time to think, down on his hands and knees, picking up shell bits like crushed dreams, and smearing the plaster until it was smooth. He had experience in patching up holes – he could be a paid professional at this point, Billy figured. Go into contracting. 

When he’d finished with _those_ messes, he had another to deal with. His old man. Billy was buzzing and tired, his skin alight with that feeling you got when it was getting too late, like it was stretched to tight over his bones. Gnats flitting around in his brain, making him feel sluggish and slow and not quite right. Like he was on a different plane of existence. 

He’d put the dustpan away, along with the joint knife and half empty tub of plaster, washing up in the sink. Watching the white run with the water down the drain, rubbing off the dust where it’d dried in the fine hairs of his forearms. 

His pops stopped at the hallway entry – Billy could feel him watching him, that gaze burning into his back like red hot pokers. Billy’s stomach twisted at the hour – he was so fucking hungry, especially after expending that much energy on low sleep, the floor vacuumed so not a shred of shell remained that could be stepped on, no sliver of glass. 

“You finished?” Neil asked, sipping at his beer can. The man wouldn’t set it down until bed. Pick it back up in the morning, half flat, to finish it. Wouldn’t waste a drop. 

Billy turned back towards him, drying his hands on his shirt as he tried to sidestep his dad, make it to his room. Like it would make a _difference_. 

“Yes sir. Sorry for the mess.” Billy replied, voice tight.

“ _Your_ mess.” Neil corrected him. “Took you long enough.”

Billy nodded, neck stiff as a puppet’s, keeping his head fucking down, because he didn’t need anymore bullshit out of tonight. After the screaming fest with Maxine, after the loaded silence in the house after that – Susan thinking Billy was the one that had made Maxine all black and blue. Thought Billy busted his pops nose, too – yeah, Billy didn’t need more of it. He just needed to sleep. He was gonna drop, and he hadn’t eaten dinner. 

He couldn’t remember when he ate last – he guessed it was at the bowling alley, and the Chief’s cabin, but it felt like a lifetime ago. Truly, years had passed since he’d last stood in that hazy warm living room, keeping an eye on the girls. Where things had felt safe, a trip wire around the house like some kind of proof they couldn’t be snuck up on. Maybe that paranoid kind of tinfoil-hat wearing shit wasn’t half bad. Maybe it worked. Made him feel better.

“Not so fast.” Neil said, holding out an arm against the wall, his dry palm flat against it. The beer can held loftily in front of him, gesturing towards Billy with the glint of aluminum. 

Billy slowly raised pale blue eyes up to his dad’s broken face – black and blue, with some of the blood vessels leaking in one eye – painting the white a vivid red. It made him look a lot more terrifying than normal, somehow, otherworldly in some way. Not quite _human._ The bridge of his nose was taped. Billy still had no idea who’d done it – no idea who would have dared to take his old man on. Billy knew he couldn’t – that had been proved to him time and time again. That person had bigger balls than Billy, he guessed. He wanted to know who it was. And why. But his dad wasn’t talking, either. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” 

Billy blinked at that, rubbing a hand over his mouth, over the fuzz of his moustache he’d been trying to grow in for like a year, and the grit of his cheeks. He needed to shave. He needed a shower. But he just wanted to go to bed – he could worry about that other shit tomorrow, when he wasn’t dragging.

“I finished everything. I’m going to bed, there’s school tomorrow. Sir.” Billy said slowly. Treading an incredibly careful line. He didn’t need to go riling Neil up again, but he couldn’t help but keep the obstinate, almost snide tone out of his voice. 

Like it was fucking obvious. It was obvious that he was finished, and obvious he wanted to pass the fuck out, and where else would he go but his room? The one spot where he should be safe, even if there was no such place. Trip wires or not. There were no trip wires here, besides the invisible ones Neil lay everywhere to catch Billy up where he’d least expect them. Changing rules, and changing boundaries. 

“Oh don’t think you’re getting off that easy. Not after the shit you pulled.” 

The smile that slowly curled at the corner of Neil’s mouth made something creep up Billy’s spine. It was something like premonition, and something like fear, like tiny spiders sinking their sharp little legs into his skin. Latching into his vertebrae for a good long ride. He knew what that meant. That meant it was finally time for Neil to teach him a lesson or whatever.

Billy’s breathing immediately picked up, a prickle creeping over his scalp.  
Billy’d known it was coming, and really, it had taken longer than he’d expected. He’d thought it would have been sooner, and he’d known it would be bad, he’d been trying not to think about it. Really, he hadn’t expected to survive this one – when he thought of that, it made his brain fill with white noise. Not surviving. Not after running off with Maxine. Not after Neil found Harrington’s fancy-pants wallet in Billy’s jeans, full of rubbers, like they was fucking. Even if Billy couldn’t even call them friends – at least he didn’t think. 

When Neil set down the can on the counter with a clink, and reached for Billy, Billy flinched back, his heart hammering against the cage of his ribs – felt like it was gonna bust out of him, and he felt a tremble pass over his entire body in preparation. 

But the blow didn’t come. Not like he thought. 

Neil grabbed at the scruff of Billy like he was some poor little gutter kitten, and herded him towards the front door. Billy almost tripped over his own feet with the pace Neil set, unsure of the direction he was being led. And when he dug in his feet on the newly vacuumed carpet, Neil shoved, hard knocking his head forward and getting him moving again. Like some stubborn mule he needed to kick into action. Billy felt himself bite his tongue with the jerky movement, and he hissed as he was dragged past the front door, down the cement steps, and around to the side of the house.

Neil got a finger up in his face, voice stiff and virtually cold as January. Emotionless. Breath fogging in front of his face. Why the fuck were they outside?

“You live in my house, you obey my rules. The other night, you made a decision, William. Decisions define us, son. You don’t want to live in my house? You don’t want to obey my rules? You need to learn. You’re sleeping here tonight – and you will be until you realize what’s best for you. And you keep yourself out of the kitchen until I give you my say so. My house, my rules, my food. You don’t pay the bills, and you don’t buy the groceries. You don’t want to be here? You want to fag around? You’ll learn alright. You’re back on military rations, and I say when you eat.” 

Another tremble passed over Billy – military rations. Not again. He was in a world of hurt lately, thanks to Maxine – lagging into old territory he’d been doing his best to avoid, like the belt, and rations.

“You might as well get used to that now. You got that, boy? Only children who respect rules, respect me, get a bed to sleep in. And I’ll be talking to the recruitment officer downtown tomorrow. You’ve got yourself a countdown to basic.” 

“Wait, I – “ Billy gaped at him – the cellar door was open. Like Neil’d opened it up prior, down to the crawl space. And Billy got shoved right in. Let it happen.

Billy went limp as he dropped past the cellar door, hitting the dirt, and he rolled to the side, wincing as the breath got knocked out of him. His fucked up back lit up like fireworks, gone from smoldering embers to an open flame, had him gasping for air. The cellar door – which wasn’t technically a cellar, it was just a crawl space – closed above him. He heard the click of a padlock being clicked back into place. 

As soon as Billy was able to drag air in again, making his lungs burn with oxygen, he scrambled up and threw himself at the angled door, shouldering against it, but it rattled against the hinges. Didn’t budge. Billy was breathing hard, breathing fast, and it was absolutely 100% pitch dark down here – so dark he couldn’t see at all. It was as dark as death. 

“Fuck…” Billy wheezed, shaking his head as he grabbed at the old, rusted handles, gave them another shove, just to see if they gave. But of course not. It was locked. Billy’s fists clenched and unclenched, his biceps rolling as the tendons in his forearms flexed, coiling. He really had to stop himself from slamming his entire body into the door, stop himself from  
_screaming_. 

“D-dad! Dad!” Billy shouted out, but it came out more like a squeak, like he was five years old again, before his voice died in his throat. He tried to reign in the panic. “Fuck fuck fuck.” He whispered under his breath. 

He tried to calm his breathing, which was quickly accelerating towards something pathetic and panicked. He _wasn’t_ pathetic. He had to keep himself in check. He screwed his eyes shut until they hurt, which didn’t make a difference in the amount of light. But after a few terrifying moments, when he finally let them open – he realized that there were faint slats of light coming through from the kitchen floorboards above him. Just enough to see by, once his eyes adjusted. Just enough to keep him sane.

In the barely-there light, Billy glanced around the cramped crawl space. It was just tall enough for him to stand, nearly brushing his head on the ceiling – or was it the floor? All of the chipped, white painted wicker furniture from the sun porch had been put down here, along with the threadbare cushions = so they wouldn’t be wrecked during the winter months. The potted plants were all dead, little brown, withered skeletons that would be repotted in May, probably. There were also piles of cardboard boxes shoved against the cinderblock walls, and cobwebs clung to every corner, coated in heavy dust. 

He guessed this was his new room for now. Fan-fucking-tastic. Another shiver rattled over Billy, and he rubbed his hands over his bare arms, frowning. He was only in a sleeveless top, sleeves ripped off, dotted with plaster, and a pair of low hanging sweats. Bare foot in dirt. Shit. He was gonna spend another night freezing his goddamn ass off, and this time he was just as bad off as Maxine – no shoes. 

Despite being so close to summer, it was chilly underground. Billy clenched his jaw until it ached, un-fucking surprised. His stomach gave an unhappy gurgle. It wasn’t what he had expected, but it wasn’t _un_ expected, either. When he was a kid, it had been a closet, but he’d out grown that a long time ago. But still, this was…strange. Because no blow had come. _That_ was unexpected. And Billy smelled a secret. Like something was going on, and Billy didn’t know what, and that always pissed him off – he didn’t like being kept in the dark, not about anything. But he was. Normally his old man would’ve gotten a few good licks in before he dumped Billy down here to lick his wounds. 

Neil wasn’t telling him something – who had hit him in the face, and why he was being uncharacteristically…non-physical? Billy didn’t have a mark on him. That wasn’t _normal._ And he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, like always.

He paced a little across the dusty floor, tugging at his hair, trying to let the sting ground him, breathing hard through his nose. Trying not to freak the fuck out. Fury washed through him, comforting him with the familiarity of rage in his veins – got his blood pumping and his lungs heaving, and he kicked the shit out of a wicker chair, goosebumps erupting over his skin. He thought of Lenore, sleeping in his car, his one safe haven that he didn’t even have the keys to. He couldn’t even curl up inside the back seat for the night. 

Couldn’t go back to Harrington’s or something, he suspected his pops would check up on him down here – make sure he stayed, like a good whelp in the dog house, because clearly Billy was no better than some pathetic mutt, chained up in the yard. Wailing for food, wailing to be let in. 

No. He knew he was stuck here. Neil had made sure of it. Taken away all of his outs – the car, the money, everything. Even Harrington was dangerous territory now. If Neil ever found him over there….he wouldn’t just kill Billy. He’d kill Harrington too. And he didn’t deserve that, the fucking do-gooder. And he didn’t need to go anywhere. Billy Hargrove didn’t need _help_. He didn’t need _charity_. 

The only way Billy would get out, was on Neil’s terms – and it was apparently in the form of the military. Army. Whatever. Just another prison, with thousands more of Neil. His pops just multiplied, times a hundred. He’d never be free. 

Billy’s grimace tore across his face like an ugly wound, and he bit the inside of his cheek until it bled – refused to cry. Hissing out air. He wouldn’t cry, shook his head violently at himself, and settled down on the wicker couch from the sun porch, trying to get comfortable. Squirming. His stomach gave another pang. It was like sleeping on top of cement, and his back was still sore to the touch. But he was so tired, so tired, that he could sleep anywhere he supposed. He tried not to imagine that there was another possum down here, like the one he'd chased out before.

Even with the chill, and the hollow gurgle of his belly. He couldn’t help but feel himself curl up slowly into a fetal position, shuddering, a single, rogue tear sliding down his temple. Wrapping his arms around his empty stomach. Then everything went dark fast, exhaustion overrunning him. It was only until the sun was up…then he’d be okay. It’d be alright. It was one way to end his eighteenth birthday.

\-----------------------

It was so good to be back in Lenore the next day, once he'd showered off the dust and sour scent of fear, even if he knew it was just to get them both to school. Break was over, and he had to ferry precious Maxine around again, even if he guessed she was on pretty thin fucking ice lately. Just like him. No more Maxine-Golden-Child apparently. He hung onto the keys like a blessing and pet her dash like he’d missed her, and practically kissed the vinyl of her steering wheel. Maxine squinted at him from the passenger seat like he was totally nuts.

“Okay what are you doing?”

“My baby missed me.”

“Uh-huh. Okayyy. So what’s the plan today?”

“I bring you to school, you finish school, I drive you home. Same as every other day.” 

Maxine raised her pale little brows at him. “This is not every other day, things just went to shit this weekend and we need to come up with a plan of action!”

Billy glanced at her sharply. “Ain’t doing this with you, Maxine. I already got myself deep enough in it, ain’t making it worse. You got any idea how much worse you made this for me?”

Maxine kept trying to talk. Billy turned up the volume on the radio until the bass vibrated in the speakers, and it drowned her out. She fumed in the passenger seat, clearly having been ready for them to have been some kind of partners in crime again.

 _‘Plan of action.’_ Yeah, like fucking what? She’d sold him out and he had no money for a plan of action. Not anymore. He was hungry, his back stiff, he was _not_ in the goddamn mood for her little play-heroics. Things didn’t work that way. This wasn’t her play-pretend Dungeons and Dragons game. He’d spent the night underground. Fuck her fantasy world. She never had the repercussions of reality – even when he could see the mottled skin around her eye.

“HEY! ASSHOLE! I’M TRYING TO TALK TO YOU!” Maxine shouted over Metallica.

Billy shook his head, earring swinging as he drummed on the steering wheel to the beat, licking his lips. Ignoring the shit out of her. 

“BILLY! C’MON!” 

Billy turned up the sound louder.

He swung into the parking lot of the Pay n Go Gas station, yanking the keys and killing the tunes, pointing at her.

“Plant your ass here, I’ll be right back.”

“Wait what are you getting? I want a soda to bring to school!”

“You got money?” 

“No?”

“You ‘n me both. Wonder why.” Billy snapped then climbed out of the Camaro, slamming the door shut. 

That seemed to shut her up, at least for the second.

The pain in his stomach was worse, but it wasn’t new, either. He’d been hungry for longer, but he wasn’t planning on letting it get that bad. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He could take care of himself.

Maxine stewed in the Camaro behind him, watching him through the windshield glass. The door chimed as Billy went in, glancing up at the round mirror that reflected the whole store for the clerk to keep an eye on folks. The dude was sitting at the register, thumbing through a magazine, and not paying a lick of attention. Until Billy walked in, apparently. He turned his big, saggy eyes up to Billy, sniffing as he eyeballed Billy. Like he was some kinda prime shoplifter, apparently.

He perused the isles, trying to get the guy’s eyes to drop off him, and heard the door jingle as Maxine didn’t fucking listen like usual and decided to join him. She dogged his steps, and he glanced at her with pale blue eyes, brow knitting together, jaw clenching. 

He glanced up once at the clerk. She seemed to get a lightbulb over her head real slow. Then she pranced up to the register to start chatting with the guy about the baseball card packs that were kept behind the counters so kids wouldn’t jack ‘em. 

Billy lurked back into the isles, grabbing a few candy bars to slide into the pocket of his jacket. He didn’t even have to say nothing to her and she still got it.

“Well those packs are seriously overpriced compared to the comic book place over in Vicksburg and you should take that into consideration!” Maxine huffed, twisting on her heel, nose in the air as she followed Billy back out to the Camaro. 

They sat in their seats for a second while Billy glanced at his watch, checking the time to get to the schools. 

Maxine twisted towards him. “Hey you haven’t lifted anything since back home.

“Yeah well I had money from your ma for ferrying your ass around, didn’t I? And maybe just not with you.”

“Well why didn’t you just tell me to be your lookout like usual! I can still do it?” 

“Because I don’t need you as my goddamn lookout, I just…”

“Did you get me one?”

Billy sighed and handed her a Mars bar. “It’s not a soda.”

Maxine shrugged and happily tore into the package. “This is good too, thanks. Why did you need an emergency Mars bar? And hey what did your dad - ”

“Guess sometimes you just do. Now shut it and leave me alone for the rest of the way, huh? I’m fucking beat. There’s no ‘plan of action,’ just let it drop. I mean it, Maxine. _Drop it._ ” 

Maxine puckered her lips at him with a little stink face, then turned to look out the window instead. Gnawing on her Mars bar for breakfast. She put her Vans on the dash. Billy swatted ‘em down, and turned the radio back up and drove the rest of the way to the middle school, scarfing the Mars bar on the way, but the chocolate didn’t seem to actually stop the ravenous feeling in his stomach. It was still there. 

Maxine rolled away towards the middle school, calling, “See ya _Raph.”_ Flipping him off over her shoulder.

Billy ducked his head and tried not to feel touched or whatever, and his mood was a little improved after getting even something small in his stomach. Flipped her the bird right back, like a friendly wave. Things felt different after all the shit that went down, he guessed.

“Don’t be fucking late again, Maxine. Remember your ma grounded you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She called back, Mars bar hanging half outta her mouth, wheels clattering over the asphalt. 

\------------

Billy sat in class – he felt mostly checked out already, graduation being so close, and he was acing all of his shit so it wasn’t like he needed to pay that much attention. Usually didn’t, really. Finals were in about three weeks, after prom.

He was slumping back in his seat in Advanced Chemistry II, watching the flame of the Bunson burner flicker high under the tripod as his lab partner – Sheila – added in the sulfur dioxide to the flask.

“Hargrove! You put those chemical splash goggles back on.” Mr. Barker pointed at him.

Billy gave him a face and pulled them back up off of his neck and over his eyes, and maybe he was being a little bitch about it, but he didn’t care. Hated how stupid they made him look, even if everybody was wearing them. 

Billy rocked back onto the back legs of his chair while Sheila made a note in her notebook, and the flame was stained blue. She glanced over her shoulder at him, raising her eyebrows.

“Hey are you gonna help or what?” 

He shrugged at her and gave her a little wink from behind the safety goggles, along with a cute curl of the side of his mouth that’d get her to shut up. She did, blushing and still scribbling in her little notebook. All the bitches shut up at that. 

“Looks like you got it handled.” He said, all charm and a too-sharp smile, looping his boot around the leg of the table as he leaned back. Thinkin’ about his old man talking to some recruiter. The fumes were making him nauseous. 

After they got everything cleaned up and the bell rang, releasing them from Chem, Billy headed towards the cafeteria with a ball of dread in his stomach. He dug around in his locker for a while until he could locate a quarter, which would at least get him a soda from the machine like usual, and he figured it was a goddamn miracle. 

He sat at the usual table with Tommy H. and Carol and the rest of the lemmings that hung around Billy like flies, hanger-oners if Billy ever saw ‘em, sipping at his can of Dr. Pepper that he’d punched outta the machine. His stomach gave an unhappy twist, but he felt buzzed with sugar as he glanced across the lunch room of tables at Harrington at his little losers table with that freak Byers and his bitch Joanie. Inhaling the food from his lunch tray. Harrington must’ve felt eyes on him, ‘cause he glanced up – right at Billy, across the whole room, eye for eye – and gave a little wave, smiling, his huge head of hair perking up.

Billy blinked at him. Well that was new. Then he looked away, squinting and taking a longer swig of his soda. Wishing for something stronger. He had his flask out in the glove box – today might call for it. 

\--------------

It happened sometime around third period, so close to being free for the day, but not quite close enough to be outta here. His old man hadn’t been kidding, and he hadn’t been pulling his chain, and he hadn’t been bluffing. He’d been serious.

Billy’d forgotten they had a recruiter at the high school – showed up sometimes with a little table and pamphlets and a big, fake-o smile wearing camouflage like a total tool. Like it was some kind of a _selling-point_. Rock-solid fashion statement. 

He knew Neil had some extra time on his hands – jobless as it were – and he guessed he’d thought better sooner than later to get his fag-ass son out from under his roof. Let somebody else worry about it, right? Yeah sure he’d been pretty invested in keeping Billy under his thumb for a while longer – keep his free chauffeur and baby-sitter for Maxine while keeping a good old fashioned punching bag around, but Billy figured his old man was getting real sick of his queer shit he kept pulling.

Like he’d told him – he wasn’t uprooting the family again just for Billy’s sake ‘cause he was fond of sucking dick. Finding those foil packed rubbers had really sealed the deal on that. 

And in a way, even getting Billy shipped off, Neil still had a form of control in that. But, Billy figured – he couldn’t make him sign. Right? He couldn’t sign for him, neither. This was all fruitless. It was scare-tactics. Right? 

But all the same, when Billy got called down to the office over the loudspeakers with a _‘Can William Hargrove please report to the office,’_ well. Billy grit his teeth and went. His dad had gotten him called in – gotten him corralled with that weird recruitment officer that smiled too much, too big, and had an affinity for camo.

By the end of it, Billy found himself in the guy’s restroom, locked into a stall with the seat down, head in his hands as he sucked the tarry spit out a cigarette filter, one elbow braced on his knee, hand straining at his hair. The other knee was bouncing, boot heel tappa-tapping as he chain smoked the thing and didn’t go back to class.

He heard people comin’ and goin’ and he didn’t exactly want to be locked up in some disgusting boys room. But he couldn’t fucking breathe and he didn’t want to be around nobody right now. He was hiding from his dad. Maybe _‘pathetic’_ wasn’t so far off. 

Even after the bell rang a short time later, Billy didn’t budge. He sat there. When his breath finally started to come back to him, fidgeting with a sharpie he’d had in his pocket from marking sample baggies in Chem, next to the switch blade he’d snatched from that Troy kid. He figured maybe it might be safe. Maybe his dad had left by now – he must have left by now. 

Billy had high tailed it out of there before he could be strong armed into signing, and it had been a closer thing than Billy would’ve liked to admit. He wouldn’t have said he was ‘hiding out’ in the bathroom, but he was totally hiding out. Not the best place to lock yourself away, but well. The Camaro was too obvious a place. His dad would look there first. He didn’t want to go back to the house. Ever.

There was a new sound – the sound of scuffling, the door swinging shut, of a back hitting a wall. Billy flicked the spent butt to the floor, ground it out under his boot on the cracked tiles. It had gone out a while ago, and he hadn’t even noticed. Nothing but ash. He wrinkled his nose and sat back, narrowing his eyes at the stall door when he heard two very familiar voices – Harrington and Joanie. 

The fuck were they doing? Was she screwing around on Byers now, too? If they were about to fuck in here Billy was definitely bailing, pronto. But there was no way. Right? And then the longer he listened, the more it kind of made sense. He saw what she was doing. Crafty.

Billy shook his head, and he felt a little stupid sitting in there now, but what could he do – announce himself now? He studied the sharpie in his hands and slid it into his back pocket, surrounded by markings on the walls, a couple of dicks he’d drawn himself, real quality artwork if you asked him. Little bits of poetry calling people skanks and sluts and things like Davies B. likes Dick. Billy didn’t think Davies really liked dick. But hey, if the stalls walls said it was true, who was he to argue? 

By the time Joanie waltzed outta there, Billy had almost all but forgotten why he was hiding out from his dad in the first place. His hands had mostly stopped shaking. Jesus Harrington was such a fucking push over. Let that bitch walk all over him. What a doormat. Billy needed to do something about it, he decided. So he banged his way outta the stall, spoke his mind.

Then, as they walked down the hallway, Billy’s hands still a little damp from washing them, he ran a hand through his curls to readjust them, primping a little as they headed for the gym.

Who was Billy _in love with?_ Harrington wanted to know who Billy’d loved? Jesus Christ. It wasn’t that. 

And Billy told himself that it wasn’t what it _was._

Wasn’t that he hated the fact of seeing them around eachother – fucking loathed those sad puppy dog eyes Harrington got around her sometime, and how she led him around from her high horse with that collar. Like Billy’d said – keeping Harrington in her back pocket like some kind of a back up boy-toy. Just in case Byers didn’t work out. 

Billy wouldn’t say it made him see red, a little. Wouldn’t say he was jealous. Harrington could do so much better than that. Deserved better than that, the perfect golden boy. He didn’t need to be trailing along after her like some sad, forgotten thing. Billy scoffed, shaking his head, and running his tongue along his lower lip as his boots clipped along on the tiles. Echoing back at them. 

“Just seen it a lot is all.” Billy said, keeping his eyes straight ahead at he end of the hallway, painted with the snarling face of a tiger. The mascot was all over the damn place. 

He could feel Harrington’s dark doe eyes on the side of his face, watching him as they strode along at this casual pace. He felt hungry, bone-tired, and grumpy, so he glanced over at Harrington’s curious gaze.

“What’re you lookin’ at?”

Harrington held up his free hand where he wasn’t hanging his bag over his shoulder, eyebrows inching up.

“Nothing. Just sounded like you had some uh, experience I guess. So are you going? To prom?” 

Steve Harrington. Asking him if he was going to prom. Billy’s fingers itched for another of his Marlboro Reds, twitching a little at his side, but he ignored the need to scratch it in the middle of the school hallway. His dad was convinced he was queering it up again, and was prepping up to try and ship him off like some kind of a punishment, even though they didn’t even take the gays in the armed forces. He guessed his pops thought training might beat it out of him, and he probably wasn’t gonna tell them about his ‘tendencies’ beforehand. Billy rubbed at his mouth, a little line twitching between furrowed brows.

“Sure am.” He’d have to get some Hawkins cow on his arm. Make it look real good. Maybe it’d get his dad off his damn back. Kinda sad, he guessed, the only person he really wanted to be there with was walking next to him. 

Also, they were voting for prom court. And Billy never missed an opportunity like that. At being the _best._ Not pathetic. _The best._

Yeah. The best. His brow smoothed over at that thought as he glanced over at Harrington again, cupids bow lips quirking up at one corner.

“You lookin’ to be King? At prom? Make royalty?”

Harrington’s face was all exasperation as he gave some sort of half hearted shrug. 

“Oh yeah, totally, can’t you tell? It’s literally all I dream about.” He replied, voice terribly dry.

Billy’s mouth curled up even more with glee. “Oh you do, huh? _King Steve._ For real.”

Harrington threw him a _look_. Billy wanted to press that button _more._ Christ he liked to get a good rise out of Harrington. Get a little smoke rising. But then Harrington went about being all honest and shit, and ruined it. Like they was friends or something.

“I dunno. I mean, I guess before – before or whatever, like when I was a freshman or something, I thought it’d happen. Sophomore year, too, and as a Junior with Nancy. But I seriously don’t care now, why would it matter? In a few weeks we’re out of here forever. It won’t make a difference. Real world or whatever. Right?”

Billy rolled his eyes at that. “Dunno about real world, but we’ll see. And hey, might as well live it up while we’re here, right? Nothing wrong with ruling the school while you can.”

“I think that honor is all yours now.” Harrington smiled at him, a bit of fond thing, and Billy found it…hard to decipher. 

Like shouldn’t Harrington be…he didn’t know…jealous? Of Billy? He’d been looking for that rise, and again, Harrington just wasn’t putting out. Typical. 

“Damn right.” Billy said, because he thought it would be too. These backwater bumpkins would fall all over themselves to make Billy king – he was almost sure of it. He was already their keg king, why not their prom king? “Since you turned pussy and all.”

Harrington sighed, rolling his eyes. “You got me.” He stretched his arms above him. “So, what happened the other night? Your step mom looked pretty royally pissed. She freak out? Is that why you got called to the office today?”

Billy felt the fire in him peter out just a bit at that, wrinkling his nose. He didn’t want to talk about it. 

“Yeah, yeah guess so. Got us both grounded, I guess, unless it’s going round to school. Can’t say I didn’t see it coming.”

“Damn…yeah, sounds like it. I mean – what…what happened, exactly? This weekend?”

Billy licked his teeth and didn’t answer.

He’d totally lost track of the time, he guessed – Harrington, too. ‘cause they were suddenly at the gym doors, and they were late, the other guys on the team already running suicides. Coach blew his whistle at them like a freaking mom and pointed at them. 

“Harrington! Hargrove! You’re late, you’ve earned yourselves extra laps! I expect better out of our Team Captain, Hargrove!” 

“Aw c’mon man we’ve only got like two weeks left…” Harrington sighed to himself under his breath as they waved at coach and lurked towards the locker rooms to change, Harrington lugging his bag along.

“We’ll just be a sec, coach.”

When they got into the cool escape of the tiled locker room, with the rusting locker doors and the neon orange showers, smelling like mildew and old gym socks, Billy started to grab his things out of his locker. Eyeing Harrington around the edge of his locker door, wondering if he’d gotten distracted enough to drop the subject. 

Billy dropped his eyes back into his locker as Harrington stripped off his fancy striped polo shirt. Didn’t want to be caught looking, he guessed. It was a lot more obvious when they weren’t surrounded by other dudes.

“Oh hey, so, I didn’t get the chance to give this to you last night, since you left early.” 

Harrington said, and started digging around in his bag. He pulled out a little package, done up in silver wrapping paper and some blue ribbon. It was a far cry from Billy’s house, where you wrapped shit up in the funnies from the Sunday paper. Apparently at the Harrington’s you wrapped things proper. Billy lifted a single brow and stared Harrington down with one eye past the lip of his locker door. 

“What, don’t gimme that look man, it’s just for your birthday. Sorry it’s not much, I wasn’t – really sure what you’d want, but – “

Billy sighed and slammed his locker door shut as he pulled his gym shorts up, throwing his sneakers down on the tile with mold in the grout. He reached out to snatch the thing out of Harrington’s hand – it was the perfect size of a cassette tape, and when he shook it a little, it rattled like one too. 

“You buy me music, Harrington?” Billy asked slowly, his other eyebrow rising up to join the first. 

“Well, I mean kinda – I made a mix – “ Harrington rubbed at the back of his neck, making the brunette locks furl up with the movement.

“With your new jambox you told me ‘bout?”

“Yeah. I know you think my taste in music is shit, but, I figured you might like some of the songs.”

Harrington…had made him a mix tape. Like a for real honest to god mix tape? He couldn’t even look at it. Couldn’t even open it. He shoved it into his locker to join the rest of his garbage pile before he shut it up again, not looking at the other boy, hiding the fact that he could feel heat rising up his neck. Staining his cheeks.

“Man your music is seriously the worst, I should be the one showing you tunes, not the other way around.” Billy bit out, but he honestly couldn’t seem to keep much of the venom in his words. Jesus he was acting like some girl creaming herself over getting a mix tape on valentines day or some shit. Fucking embarrassing. “You record me some Genesis? I’ve been dyin’ for that shit, man.”

But when he chanced a look back at Harrington, he was just smiling at him. Weirdo. “Maybe.” 

Billy didn’t say thanks, they lapsed into a companionable silence finishing getting changed.

Then Harrington and Billy both sat down on the bench to start tugging on their respective sneakers – Nikes on Harrington, like some kind of a religion for the guy, and Billy’s beat up chucks. Pulling his tube socks up, whereas Harrington’s slouched down. Billy hated how he noticed weird little things like that. Details.

Billy forgot, for a second – though he didn’t know how he could. When he stretched to pull his shirt off, swapping it for his gym shirt – since he wasn’t playing skins today, because – 

“Hey.” Harrington announced voice soft. “Holy shit. What happened to your back?” 

Billy froze, the shirt half extended over his head, and he could feel the stretch and pull of the marks on his back. He slowly finished drawing it over his head, trying to play it off cool. Billy almost jerked away when he felt a soft, impossibly soft finger brushing over his back –gingerly following one of the lines left by the bite of a leather belt. As if to make sure it was real. Billy flinched back from the feather down touch.

“Nothing. Back the fuck off.” He snapped.

“Hey – Hey, but – your back, it – “

“It’s _nothing_ , you got me?”

Billy wasn’t looking over at him, but he could feel Harrington go tense beside him – could feel the searching gaze against him, those pretty eyes probably big as chocolate coins. He twisted his back away from him and tugged the athletics shirt on. Covering up the marks, and the bandaid on his shoulder for good measure, at least until the burn mark scarred over more. 

Harrington was gathering up his jeans to shove them in the locker with his preppy polo, and his wallet fell out. Smacked on the tile. He leaned over with an uneasy glance at Billy, sliding it back in it’s respective pocket – some kinda expensive leather, Billy remembered. Had a funny mark on the front, like you might see on a set of playing cards, but he didn’t know what it meant. 

“Yeah but – I mean, hey, your dad, he - ?”

“Say, Harrington…” Billy said slowly, chewing over the words. “How’d you get your wallet back?” He almost surprised himself at how easy they fell from his mouth. Scattering without a second thought. Latching onto it to change the subject from his back. Turning around the topic.

Harrington was quiet for a minute. “Man, we really need to get back out there or coach is gonna kill us. Like really, murder us.”

Billy raised steady, no-bullshit blue eyes up to Harrington, his jaw setting a little. Grinding his teeth together. He could hear the squeak of gym shoes outside the locker room doors, and the steady drip of a leaky shower head back in the stalls. Harrington’s eyes flicked to his and away again, nervous-like. Like he had somethin’ to hide. Billy stood up, matching him, almost, in height. But not quite. He rolled his neck, heard it pop.

“You’re killing me, c’mon let’s go.” Harrington tried again when Billy didn’t reply, nodding his head over his shoulder.

“No. C’mon. Tell me. I wanna know.”

“Man why…why wouldn’t I have my wallet?”

“’cause I had it. You dropped it, other night you was wasted, when the cops showed – I put it in my pocket, safekeeping. My dad took it. How’d you get it.”

Harrington shifted on his feet, then finally planted his hands on his hips. They faced off across the tiles, eye to eye. And Harrington sort of jerked his head back at what Billy was tellin’ him. Like he’d hit him or somethin’. He looked like the gears in his head were spinning, looking for an answer real fast. He looked like he did that night at the Byers’ place. Thinking of a way out. Thinking of a lie. Billy stared at him. Stared _through_ him. Shit. Shit. 

“He give it back to you?” He asked, real quiet. Almost couldn’t hear himself over the other, little sounds. Like this quiet symphony that was overridin’ his words.

Harrington swallowed – Billy could hear that, too. It was that loud. His eyes traced the movement of Harrington’s Adam’s apple, this sharp, angular thing that he’d imagined getting his mouth on before. His tongue. He shook his head a little. Got his eyes back on Harrington’s. Something hot was pressing in behind Billy’s eyes. Harrington had given him a _mixtape_ – he hadn’t unwrapped it, but that’s what it was. Sitting in his locker. Waiting for him. Harrington’s gaze skittered away from him, nervous-like.

“…..yeah.” He finally said. Admitted. “Yeah, he did.”

Billy swore softly and took a step back from Harrington. Like he needed distance from the fact. Christ, he’d known, but he hadn’t _known_. He didn’t know what he’d expected. He’d needed Harrington to stay no. He’d needed him to say he found it on the street. Maybe it was anonymously stuffed in his mailbox. Hell, maybe one of the nerds found it in a garbage can. Anything but Neil. But it was true, and it was real, and Billy didn’t know what it meant. Or maybe he did.

“He have anything to say to you?” Billy asked again, snipped the words out from between his teeth like blades.

Harrington watched him with those big, dark eyes.

“Coach – “ He started.

“Fuck coach. What my old man say to you?”

Harrington’s fingers, those long, gorgeous fingers, flinched on his hips. Billy thought of how they’d just felt on his back.

“Look, Hargrove, I’m not doing this with you, why does it always have to be a fight? One second you’re like, acting cool, and trying to – I don’t know – give me advice and everything, like about Nancy? For a second, I think maybe we can be friends. Then you – “

“What? Make it into a fight?” Billy snapped.

“Why can’t we just try this being friends thing? Why does it seem like you always – always – “ Harrington gestured widely with one hand as if searching for an answer with a spread out palm, before he shoved it through his hair. Pushing it off his forehead. “I dunno! Push me away or something? Why does it matter how I got the wallet? What about your back?”

“What’d he say to you Harrington!” Billy snapped, and he could feel the tendons in his neck straining, and the blood was rushing to his face again, but not from embarrassment. He felt a vein ticking at his temple. 

Harrington set his Nikes on the tiles. Wild thoughts were flying through Billy’s head. His old man’s nose – his busted, broken-ass nose. Harrington wouldn’t have done that. Couldn’t have done that. Harrington had been with Billy, picking them up to go to the lame little arcade, to go bowling or whatever. He couldn’t be in two places at once. But Billy was also missing some gaps of time, it seemed. And Billy still had the rest of Harrington’s story that Billy’d been trying to pull out of him from the bowling alley. Harrington kept too many secrets. He lied too much.

Harrington blinked several times, his gaze wheeling around the lines of lockers caging them in, then – “He said – he said, uh. I mean – “ Harrington chewed at his lip, then – Billy caught it. Saw it. His gaze dropped to Billy’s gym shorts. It was unmistakable. 

Billy felt his breath go still in his lungs, felt them tighten up like his rib cage was actually shrinking, like he was Alice in Wonderland – drank the vial, and he was getting smaller, but only his insides. And it was killing him, inch by inch. He couldn’t catch his breath. Felt like he was in the cellar again, or in the bathroom stall, everything going dark. 

This was a real bitch of a day, Billy thought. 

He didn’t think he’d been quite okay since last night. No, the night before. He didn’t know why he could never, never catch a fucking break. He could see it in those whiskey amber eyes, heavy with something like tentative curiosity, and something else too. Maybe denial. Billy didn’t know what, though. 

“I’m not talking about this. I’m leaving. Practice is gonna be half over – “ Harrington shook his head sharply, heading towards the swinging gym door, his shoulder blades tight – a line of tension running between them. Practically tripping over himself to get away.

Billy’s voice rang out after him, like a purr, a challenge, echoing strangely against the locker room walls, the steel of their lockers. “C’mon, Harrington. Are you _really_ goin’ t’ leave without asking me the question you’ve been _dying_ to ask me? Huh?”

His heart was thrumming in his chest, and he felt dizzy with a rush of blood surging through his head. Felt like he was choking on his own arteries. Fists twisting up at his sides, like he was ready to lay into somebody good. 

Harrington froze just before the door. Just like Billy thought he would.  
He looked slowly over his shoulder, a coil of his perfect hair straying down over his eyes, giving Billy a perfect cast of his profile. A muscle in his jaw jumped, cast in strange shadows from the dim locker room lights. He looked a little pink, just around the collar of his athletics shirt. 

“Must’ve been eating you up since yesterday.” A million things were running through Billy’s head, making the dizziness worse.

He’d thought Harrington was acting weird. At the arcade. When Billy’d touched his elbows. Guiding his throws. Almost stilted. And how he’d watched, so intent, while Billy licked off the Lik-a-Stix candy. Asking if anybody’d licked _Harrington’s_ stick. Licking off the sugar like Harrington hadn’t fucking known, because he didn’t think he _had_. Now it felt so glaringly obvious. Billy’d known, known something was off, but he – he didn’t know Harrington – if he knew. 

“Look, it’s none of my business. I mean I – I know you like girls. I heard you with Becky, that night, that night the cops showed up – you don’t have to worry, I don’t think you’re – you’re – “ 

“A queer?” Billy asked real quiet, kept it simple. His eyes flashing like blue lightning in the poor shadows. 

Harrington’s lips pursed together, before he licked them, and Billy watched his tongue – this pink, darting thing - but the other guy didn’t say anything back. He just watched Billy watching him, drawn up with tension.

“….even if you were, I wouldn’t care. But – your dad is a real piece of work. He said – well, he thought we were...” 

Billy couldn’t help an indignant, disbelieving snort. “Oh no? Wouldn’t care, huh? And what? Thought we were _what?”_

“No! I wouldn’t. But I mean – wait, are you saying… I mean Becky, she…you…"

Billy’s stomach growled, interrupting him. Loudly. Harrington’s face went a little slack, staring at him, and the moment of tension broke like a fucking balloon. Billy stared back at him. It gurgled again, like his stomach was _whining._ Billy desperately wished it would shut up. Harrington blinked again, almost cartoonishly. His mouth hung open a little.

“A – are you hungry?” He asked after a brief beat of silence, nothing but squeaking shoes and the blow of a whistle outside.

Billy locked his jaw, and immediately folded his arms over his chest, biceps rolling. He couldn’t help but jut his chin out in a stubborn way – in a way his mom used to tease him about when he got real 'obstinate,' she said. 

“What you want me to tell you? Got sent to bed without my dinner?” Billy sneered, flashing a sharp canine, lifting his lip. Nostrils flaring.

“HARGROVE! HARRINGTON!” Coach hollered from the gym. “YOU LADIES GONNA BOTHER TO JOIN US ANY TIME THIS CENTURY, OR YOU STILL PUTTING ON YOUR FACES?!” 

Something seemed to compute on Harrington’s face, seeing right through Billy, it seemed - and he said, “Look – you should come to my place, after. I know you said you’re grounded, but – look, I got a lot of food at the house. I really want to finish talking about this with you, you know, when we don’t have practice.”

Billy blinked. The very real appeal of food being offered to him, without having to swing by Bradleys Big Buy to swipe something, was almost too tempting to resist. And really, it was more than that – he needed to make sure that Harrington didn’t say nothin’ to anybody. Even if he thought Billy’d been getting off banging Becky’s bleach blonde brains out, when he hadn’t been able to get it up the way he should…it wouldn’t take much asking around to find that out, he supposed. Harrington knew Becky.

Billy could just make sure he wouldn’t open that big, pretty mouth to anybody. He told himself that was why. He told himself it wasn’t the free food on the table. And it wasn’t getting to spend more time with Harrington. He thought about what he'd been thinking last night - about how seeing Harrington was a bad idea, going over to his place, if his dad caught him there. But he needed to play interference. He could manage to not get caught in the meantime.

“Yeah. Yeah, alright. I’ll see what I can do. And you keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you.” Billy's voice was severe as he swung by Harrington to shoulder check him on his way out the swinging door, beating him to being the first out outta there.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my fic based off of a writing prompt list from Tumblr. I'm @lemonlovely. I hope you like it, thanks for reading! 
> 
> Prompt List: https://lemonlovely.tumblr.com/post/172319121036/words-left-unsaid-master-post
> 
> P.S Your comments and kudos are giving me life, all <3 Thanks for your nice words guys!


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